•r 

II 


OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


POPULAR   NOVELS. 

By  May  Agnes  Fleming. 

1.— GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 
2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 
3.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 
4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 
5.— A  MAD  MARRIAGE. 
6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 
7.— KATE  DANTON. 
8.— SILENT  AND  TRUE. 
9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON. 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM.    (New.) 


"  Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more  popu- 
lar every  day.      Their  delineations  of  character 
life-like  conversations,   flashes   of  wit,   con- 
stantly varying  scenes,  and  deeply  in- 
teresting plots,  combine  to  place 
their   author  in  the  very 
first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.   Price  $1.50  each, 
and  seut/ree  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price, 

BY 

G.  TV.  CARLETON  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


ONE 


NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 


BY 


MAY  AGNES   FLEMING, 

AUTHOR    OF 

EARLSCOURT'8  WIFE,"    "A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN," 
"A  TERRIBLE  SECRET,"  "NORINE'S  REVENCTE," 
"MAD  MARRIAGE,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

G.    W    Carleton   &    Co.,    Publishers. 

LONDON:    S.  LOW   &  PQ. 
MDCCCLXJCIX 


tA 


1876,   BT 

.  W.  CARLETON  &  CO, 


TFOW'S 

PRINTING  AND  UOOKBINDIKG 
205-313  A'uj/  i2/A  i/., 

MBW  Y0KK% 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I. — Sydney 9 

.  II.— Cyrilla 18 

III. — School-Girl  Gossip 25 

IV. — "  So  Young,  and  so  Untender  " 31 

V. — "  Part  now,  Part  well,  Part  wide  Apart" 39 

VI. — Why  Miss  Dormer  Hated  Fred  Carew 51 

VII.  — "Under  the  Tamaracs" 60 

VIII.— "  All  is  Lost  but  Honor" 66 

IX. — "A  Tempest  in  a  Teapot" 72 

X.— The  Last  Night 84 

XL— "A  Laggard  in  Love"   89 

XII. — "Allan-a- Dale  to  His  Wooing  has  Come" IOO 

XIII. — "  Allan-a-Dale  is  no  Baron  or  Lord  " in 

XIV.  —  "  Men  were  Deceivers  Ever" 120 

XV. — "To  One  Thing  Constant  Never" 129 

XVI. — "  His  Honor,  Rooted  in  Dishonor,  Stood" 143 

XVIL— "He's  Sweetest  Friend,  or  Hardest  Foe " 158 

XVIII.— "  The  Feast  is  Set" 165 

XIX. — The  Guests  are  Met 175 

XX.—"  Death  is  King— and  Vivat  Rex  " 183 

XXL— "'Twason  the  Evening  of  a, Winter's  Day  " 192 

XXII.—"  Oh,  Whistle,  and  I'll  Come  to  Ye,  my  Lad  " 203 

XXIII.— Fairy  Gold 214 

XXI V.— Vendetta 224 

XXV.— " Good-bye,  Sweetheart" 234 

XXVI.— "Oh!  the  Lees  are  Bitter,  Bitter " 245 


PART   SECOND. 

I. —Sydney 252 

II. — "  Sintram  " 260 

IIL-Talk  and  Tea— and  a  Letter 270 


£9500 


viii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

TV. — A  Basket  if  Flowers  and  a  Dinner 282 

V.— A  Long  Talk  and  a  Little  Walk age 

VI.— "One  Yellow  New-Year  Night" 299 

VII. — "Fair  as  a  Star" 309 

VIII.— Twilight  in  Lucy's  Room 319 

IX. — "  My  Life  has  Found  what  Some  have  found  so  Sweet "...  326 

X.—"  I  shall  have  had  my  Day  " 333 

XI.—"  Her  Heart's  Desire  " 343 

XII. —Teddy 346 

XIII.— At  the  Play  and  After 357 

XIV.— A  Visit  and  a  Golden  Wedding 365 

XV. — "No  Sun  goes  Down  but  that  some  Heart  does  Break"  ..  375 

XVI.— A  Fond  Kiss,  and  then  we  Sever  " 380 

XVII. — "  As  One  Whom  His  Mother  Comforteth  " 386 

XVIII.—"  The  Light  in  the  Dust  Lies  Dead  " 392 

XIX.— "It  is  Good  to  be  Loyal  and  True" 398 

XX.— A  New- Year  Gift 408 

XXI.—"  Two  Hands  upon  the  Breast  and  Labor  Past " 414 

XXII.— Dolly 421 

XXIII.— "He  who  Endures  Conquers " , 428 

XXIV.— "IntD  Marvellous  Light" 436 


ONE   NIGHT'S   MYSTERY 


CHAPTER  I. 

SYDNEY. 

"  A  girl  who  has  so  many  wilful  ways, 

She  would  have  caused  Job's  patience  to  forsake  him, 
Yet  is  so  rich  in  all  that's  girlhood's  praise, 
Did  Job  himself  upon  her  goodness  gaze, 

A  little  better  she  would  surely  make  him." 

GRAY,  quaint  Canadian  town,  a  dozen  rows  of  strag- 
gling streets,  tin-roofed  houses  that  wink  and  twinkle 
back  the  frosty  fall  sunshine — houses  uniform  in  nothing 
except  their  dulness  and  their  glistening  metal  roofs. 
Dull,  very  dull  they  certainly  are  ;  two-storied,  many-windowed, 
of  dingy  red  brick  or  gloomy  gray  stone  ;  depressing  beyond 
all  telling  to  the  eye  and  mind  of  the  solitary  stranger  doomed 
for  his  sins  to  drag  out  a  few  dreary  months  in  the  stagnant — 
well,  let  us  say — town  of  Petit  St.  Jacques.  Stagnant — that  is 
the  word.  Life  long  ago  lay  down  for  a  siesta  there,  and  never 
woke  up.  Religion  is  the  only  thing  that  seems  at  all  brisk. 
Many  gilt  spires  point  upward  to  the  blue  Canadian  heaven  ;  a 
full  score  of  bells  clash  forth  each  Sunday,  and  thrice  on  that 
day,  and  thrice  each  week-day,  the  great  booming  bell  of  the 
dim  old  Cathedral  de  Notre  Dame  chimes  forth  the  "  An- 
gelus  Domini,"  as  you  may  hear  in  some  dreamy,  w'orld  for- 
gotten town  of  old  France.  Beneath  its  gray  stone  arches  tall 
pines  and  feathery  tamaracs  toss  their  green  plumes  in  the  salt 
breezes  from  the  stormy  gulf,  and  brilliant-plumaged,  shrill- 
voiced  Canadian  birds  flit  among  the  branches.  In  the  fiercely 
hot,  short-lived  Canadian  summer  grass  grows  green  in  the 
market-places  and  busiest  streets  of  Petit  St.  Jacques. 
I* 


10  SYDNEY. 

In  the  summer.  But  the  summer,  brief  and  sweet  as  a 
pleasant  dream,  is  at  an  end ;  the  ides  of  October  are  here. 
Shrill  October  winds  whistle  down  the  wide  empty  streets  ;  drift? 
o!"  scarlet  maple  and  orange  hemlock  leaves  swirl  in  your  face  ; 
a  black  frost  holds  the  earth  iron  bound ;  your  footsteps  ring 
like  steel  over  the  unpaved  sidewalks  ;  the  keen  breath  of  coming 
winter  sets  your  blood  leaping,  your  eyes  sparkling,  and  lights 
in  dusk  Canadian  cheeks  a  hue  rosier  than  all  the  rouge  regetal 
on  earth  can  give. 

"And  the  last  of  October  will  be  Halloween!  This  is  the 
twenty-ninth — only  two  days  more.  Girls,  do  stop  whooping 
like  a  tribe  of  Mic-macs  gone  mad,  and  list,  oh !  list  to  me. 
Friday  next  is  Halloween." 

But  the  speaker's  voice  was  lost  in  the  shrieking  uproar  of 
five-and-thirty  school-girls  "  on  the  war-path."  Afternoon 
school  was  over,  the  day  scholars  gone  home,  and  the 
boarders,  out  in  the  playground  for  the  last  half-hour's  recess 
before  evening  study,  were  rending  the  heavens  with  the  deafen- 
ing, distracting  din  that  five-and-thirty  of  those  rose-cheeked, 
gold- haired,  corseted  angels  alone  know  how  to  raise. 

If  there  was  one  thing  besides  its  churches  for  which  Petit 
St.  Jacques  was  famous,  it  was  the  establishment  of  the  Dem- 
oiselles Chateauroy  for  young  ladies.  It  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  Rue  St.  Dominique  ;  and  if  there  was  anything  to  choose  in 
the  matter  of  dulness  and  respectability  among  all  the  dull  and 
respectable  streets  of  the  little  town,  the  Rue  St.  Dominique 
should  be  awarded  the  palm.  There  were  no  shops,  there 
were  no  people ;  the  houses  looked  at  you  as  you  passed  with  a 
sad,  settled,  melancholy  mildew  upon  them  ;  the  doors  rarely 
opened,  the  blinds  and  curtains  were  never  drawn  ;  prim  little 
gardens,  with  prim  little  gravel-paths,  shut  in  these  sad  little 
houses  from  the  street ;  now  and  then  a  pale,  pensive  face 
might  gleam  at  you  from  some  upper  window,  spectre-like,  and 
vanish.  The  wheels  of  a  passing  wagon  echo  and  re-echo 
down  its  long  silence;  the  very  dogs  who  sneak  out  to  waggle 
their  tails  in  the  front  grass-plot  have  a  forlorn  and  secret-sor- 
row sort  of  air.  Take  it  for  all  in  all,  you  might  travel  from  the 
St.  Lawrence  to  the  Rio  Grande  and  not  find  another  so  abso- 
lutely low-spirited  and  drearily  respectable  a  street  as  the  Rue 
St.  Dominique.  Indeed,  as  Miss  Sydney  Ovvenson  often  and 
justly  remarked,  it  was  a  very  poor  compliment  to  St.  Dominique 
to  christen  it  after  him  at  all.  Miss  Sydney  Owenson  was  one 
of  the  Demoiselles  Chateuuroy's  five-and  thirty  boarders ;  and 


SYDNEY.  II 

It  may  as  well  be  stated  here  as  elsewhere,  had  made  the  Demoi- 
selles Chateauroy  more  trouble,'  broken  more  laws,  been  con- 
demned to  solitary  confinement  oftener,  been  the  head  and 
front  of  more  frolicsome  offendings,  and,  withal,  been  better 
loved  by  both  pupils  and  teachers  during  the  past  three  years 
than  the  other  four-and-thirty  put  together. 

"Miss  Owenson  is  in  disgrace  every  week  of  her  life," 
Mademoiselle  Jeanne  Chateauroy  was  wont  to  observe,  taking 
a  surreptitious  pinch  of  snuff,  "  and,  if  strict  justice  were  admin- 
istered, would  be  in  punishment  and  disgrace  every  day  of  the 
week  ;  but,  ma  foi  I  what  would  you  ?  It  is  only  high  spirits 
and  good  health,  after  all.  She  keeps  the  school  in  a  ferment, 
that  is  true  ;  there  is  no  mischief  of  which  she  is  not  ringleader, 
but  it  is  innocent  mischief,  after  all ;  she  has  the  smile  and 
voice  of  an  angel ;  it  is  impossible  to  be  as  severe  with  her  as  she 
deserves,  and  then,  Mon  Dieu,  it  is  the  best  heart  that  ever 
beat." 

This  pensionnat  des  demoiselles  of  the  sisters  Chateauroy  was 
situated,  as  has  been  said,  in  the  centre  of  the  Rue  St.  Dominique, 
fronting  directly  upon  the  street — its  extensive  gardens  and  play- 
ground in  the  rear.  A  wooden  wall  eight  feet  high  shut  in  this 
sacred  inclosure  and  its  angelic  "jeunes  filles"  from  the  sa- 
crilegious eye  of  man.  In  the  face  of  the  fierce  summer  sun,  in 
the  teeth  of  the  fierce  winter  blasts,  the  twelve  green  shutters 
that  protected  the  twelve  front  windows  were  kept  jealously 
closed  and  barred.  No  prying,  curious  daughter  of  Eve  might 
by  any  chance  look  out  upon  the  gay  and  festive  dissipations  of 
the  Rue  St.  Dominique — no  daring  masculine  eye  might  ever 
in  passing  glance  in.  This  prison  discipline  had  only  existed 
within  the  past  two  years,  and  a  dark  and  dreadful  legend  was 
whispered  about  through  the  dormitories  in  the  '-dead  waist  and 
middle  of  the  night  "  to  all  newcomers  of  the  reason  why.  As 
usual,  it  was  all  Sydney  Owenson's  fault.  Perched  on  top  of  the 
highest  desk  in  the  school-room,  her  eager  head  thrust  out  of 
the  window,  this  daring,  ill-behaved  girl  had  deliberately  winked 
at  a  passing  soldier  from  the  dingy  old  stone  barracks  outside 
the  town.  The  soldier  had  winked  back  again;  then  this 
totally  depraved  Miss  Owenson  had  thrown  him  a  kiss  ;  then 
this  dreadful  soldier  threw  her  a  kiss,  and  grinned,  and  went  by. 
Next  day  he  came  again  ;  next  day  Miss  Owenson  was  perched 
up  on  -the  window-sill,  like  sister  Anne  on  the  watch-tower, 
to  see  if  there  was  anybody  coming.  Sent  by  her  g  lardian- 
angel,  no  doubt,  at  this  dreadful  juncture,  Mademoiselle  Chat- 


fj  SYDNEY. 

eaiiroy  the  elder  came  into  the  school-room  ;  Mademoiselle 
Chateauroy's  horrified  eyes  beheld  Miss  Owenson  with  all  the 
superior  half  of  her  person  projecting  into  the  Rue  St.  Dom- 
inique :  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  stunned  ears  overheard 
these  words  : 

'•I  say,  Mr.  Lobsterback,  who  is  that  lovely  young  officer  1 
saw  prancing  all  you  fellows  to  the  English  Church  last  Sun- 
'  day  ?     All  the  girls  are  dying  to  know,  and  I  told  them  I  would 
find  out.     We're  all  in  love  with  him.     Do  tell  us  his " 

Mademoiselle  Chateauroy  heard  no  more.  To  seize  Miss 
Sydney  Owenson,  to  tear  her  from  her  perch,  to  slam  down  the 
window,  to  glare  annihilation  upon  the  grinning  red-coat,  to 
confront  the  offender,  livid  with  horror,  was  but  the  work  of  a 
second. 

What  awful  fate  befell  the  culprit  no  pupil  knew — no,  not  to 
this  day ;  her  punishment  was  enshrouded  in  the  same  dark 
mystery  that  envelops  the  ultimate  end  of  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask.  She  had  not  been  expelled,  that  was  clear,  for  that  was 
two  years  ago  ;  and  when  questioned  herself,  Miss  Owenson 
was  wont  to  look  for  a  moment  supernaturally  solemn,  and 
then  go  off  into  a  peal  at  the  remembrance  that  made  the 
"  welkin  ring." 

It  is  close  upon  five  on  this  October  evening,  when  the 
thirty-five  boarders  of  the  pensionnat  are  disporting  themselves 
in  the  primrose  light  of  the  dying  day,  under  the  watchful  and 
weary  eyes  of  Miss  Jones,  the  English  teacher.  It  is  a  French 
play,  and  a  very  noisy  one.  "  Brother  Hermit,  can  you  dance  ?  " 
half  a  dozen  tall  girls  are  chanting,  in  high,  shrill,  sing-song 
French.  Shrieks  of  laughter  rend  the  atmosphere,  and  Miss 
Jones  covers  two  distracted  ears,  and  calls  frantically,  and  calls 
in  vain : 

"  Young  ladies  !     Oh,  dear  me  !     Young  ladies,  less  noise." 

The  noise  grows  fast  and  furious,  the  chanting  rises  shriller 
and  shriller,  the  screams  of  laughter  wilder  and  wilder.  The 
"Brother  Hermits"  caper  about  like  dancing  dervishes  gone 
mad.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  a  tall,  dark,  handsome  girl,  with  a 
double  eyeglass  across  the  bridge  of  her  patrician  aquiline 
nose,  comes  laughingly  up  to  half-delirious  Miss  Jones. 

"  It's  more  like  a  maison  de  satite,  with  the  lunatics  set  loose, 
than  a  decorous  young  ladies'  school,"  she  remarks.  "  I  say, 
Miss  Jones,  where  is  Sydney  Owenson  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Oh,  if  the  study  bell  would  but  ring  !  Go 
aad  look  for  Sydney  Oweiiioa  m  the  thick  of  the  melte i  you'll 


SYDNEY.  IJ 

be  sure  to  find  her  ;  they  never  could  make  half  so  much  noise 
without  her.     Oh,  good  heaven  !  hear  that." 

Another  ear  splitting  shriek  made  Miss  Jones  cover  her 
bruised  and  wounded  tympanums.  The  dark  damsel  laughed. 

"  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends  from  heaven  that  fell 
Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of " 

"  Miss  Hendrick  !  "  screamed  Miss  Jones. 

"  The  place  unmentionable  to  ears  polite.  Don't  cry  out  be- 
fore you're  hurt,  Miss  Jones.  No,  Syd  isn't  there,  however  they 
manage  to  raise  all  that  racket  without  her.  Where  can  she  be  ? 
I  want  to  tell  her  that  Friday  is  Hallowe'en,  and  that  Mrs.  Dela- 
mere  has  invited  all  our  class  who  will  be  allowed  to  go  to  a 
party  at  her  house." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Hendrick  ! "  Miss  Jones,  the  English 
teacher,  fixed  two  suspicious  light-blue  eyes  upon  Miss  Hen- 
drick's  dark,  handsome  face,  and  expressed  volumes  of  disbelief 
in  that  one  incredulous  word. 

"  Yes,'  indeed,'  Miss  Jones,  and  you  are  not  invited,  I'm  happy 
to  say.  You  don't  believe  me,  do  you  ?  You  never  do  believe 
anything  Cyrilla  Hendrick  says,  if  you  can  help  yourself,  do  you  ? 
You  see,  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere  happens — unfortunately  for 
you — to  be  a  lady,  and  has  a  weakness  for  inviting  young  ladies 
only  to  her  house.  That  is  why,  probably,  she  is  blind  to  the 
manifold  merits  of  Miss  Mary  Jane  Jones.  You're  name  is 
Mary  Jane,  isn't  it,  Miss  Jones  ?  I  saw  it  in  your  prayer-book. 
No,  don't  apologize,  please — it's  more  one's  misfortune  than 
one's  fault  to  be  born  Mary  Jane  Jones — 'Arose  by  any  other 
name,'  etc." 

All  this,  with  her  black  eyes  fixed  full  upon  Miss  Jones's  face, 
in  the  slowest,  softest  voice,  an  insolent  smile  on  her  handsome 
lips,  Miss  Cyrilla  Hendrick  said. 

Miss  Jones  sprang  to  her  feet,  passion  flashing  from  her  eye, 
her  pale,  freckled  complexion  flushing  crimson. 
*     "  Miss  Hendrick,  your  insolence  is  not  to  be  borne  !     I  will 
not  bear    it.     The    moment  recreation   is  over,  I    will  go    to 
Mam'selle  Chateauroy  and  report  your  impertinent  speech." 

"  Will  you,  really  ?  Don't  excite  yourself,  dear  Miss  Jones. 
It  you  palpitate  in  this  way,  something  will  go  crack.  Tell 
mam'selle  anything  it  pleases  yjur  gracious  highness;  it  won't 
be  the  first  time  you've  carried  stories  of  me.  Mademoiselle 


14  SYDNEY. 

can  get  a  hotter  teacher  than  you  any  day,  but  first-rate  pupils 
don't  grow  on  every  tamarac-tree  in  Lower  Canada.  Adieu, 
dear  and  gentle  Miss  Jones  !  I  kiss  your  ladyship's  hands. 
Sydney  !  Sydney  !  where  are  you  ?  " 

She  walked  away,  sending  her  fresh,  clear  young  voice  over 
all  the  uproar.  Miss  Jones,  the  teacher,  looked  after  her  with 
a  glare  of  absolute  hatred. 

"  I'll  be  even  with  you  yet,  Miss  Cyrilla  Hendrick,  or  I'll 
know  the  reason  why !  You  have  given  me  more  insolence 
during  the  past  year  than  all  the  school  together.  As  you  say, 
it's  no  use  complaining  to  Miss  Chateauroy.  You're  a  credit  to 
the  school,  she  thinks,  with  your  brilliant  singing,  and  playing, 
and  painting  ;  but  I'll  pay  you  for  your  jibes  and  insults  one 
day,  mark  my  words — one  day,  and  that  before  long." 

"  Sydney  !  Sydney  !  "  the  clear  voice  still  shouted.  "  Now, 
where  can  that  girl  be  ?  '  That  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom 
the  angels  call  Lenore.'  Sydney  !  Sydney-y  !  Sydney-y-y-y  !  " 

She  stops,  expending  all  her  strength  in  one  mighty  shout 
that  rises  over  the  wild,  high  singing  of  the  French  Canadians, 
"  Frere  1'Hermite,  savez  vous  danser  ?  "  It  comes  pealing  to 
an  upper  window  overlooking  the  playground,  and  a  girl 
huddled  up  cross-legged  like  a  Turk  takes  two  fingers  out  of 
two  pretty  pink  ears,  and  lifts  a  yellow  head  from  a  book  to 
listen. 

"Sydney!  Sydney  Owenson  !  Oh,  my  own,  my  long-lost 
daughter!"  cried  Miss  Hendricks  with  ear-splitting  piercing- 
ness,  "  where  in  this  wicked  world  are  you  ?  " 

"  Bother !  "  mutters  the  girl  in  the  window,  and  then  the 
yellow  head,  "  sunning  over  with  curls,"  goes  down  again,  two 
fingers  return  into  two  ears,  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  glue  themselves 
once  more  to  the  pages  of  the  book,  and  Miss  Sydney  Owenson 
is  lost  again  to  all  sublunary  things.  They  may  shriek,  they 
may  yell,  they  may  rend  the  heavens  with  their  unearthly  cries, 
they  may  drive  Miss  Jones  deaf  and  frantic — Cyrilla  Hendrick, 
the  friend  of  her  bosom,  the  David  in  petticoats  to  her  Jonathan 
ditto,  may  split  her  voice  in  her  distracted  cries  for  "  Sydney  ," 
Sydney  is  a  thousind  miles  away  ;  nothing  short  of  an  earth- 
quake may  arouse  her,  so  absorbed  is  she. 

Yes,  something  does. 

'•  Miss  Owenson  !  "  says  the  awful  voice  of  Mademoiselle 
Chate-auroy  the  elder,  and  Miss  Owenson  drops  her  book  and 
jumps  as  though  she  were  shot.  "Miss  Owenson,  what  book 
is  that  ?  " 


SYDNEY.  15 

A  small,  snuff- Colored  lady,  with  a  frisette  and  ahead-dress 
of  yellow  roses  and  black  beadwork,  confronts  her — a  very 
small,  very  snuff-colored  lady,  with  glancing  opal  eyes — Mad- 
emoiselle Stephanie  Chateauroy. 

Miss  Owenson  puts  her  two  hands,  the  book  in  them,  behind 
her  back,  and  faces  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  a  la  Napoleon 
the  Great.  She  is  a  pretty  girl — a  very  pretty  girl  of  seventeen 
or  so,  with  gray,  large,  innocent-looking  eyes,  a  pearly  skin,  a 
soft-cut,  childish  mouth,  and  curls  of  copper  gold  down  to  her 
slim  girl's  waist. 

"  Yes,  mam'selle,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  in  a  tone  of  cheerful 
meekness  ;  "  did  you  call  me,  mam'selle  ?  " 

"Why  are  you  not  in  the  playground,  Mees  Owenson  ?  "  de 
mands,  severely,  mademoiselle. 

"  Oh,  well !  "  responds  Miss  Owenson,  losing  a  trifle  of  her 
cheerful  meekness,  "I'm  sick  of  'Brother  Hermit'  and  the 
other  stupid  plays,  only  fit  for  the  babies  of  the  premiere  class. 
Besides,  the  noise  makes  my  head  ache." 

Miss  Owenson  makes  this  remarkable  statement  calmly.  The 
open  window  at  which  she  has  been  sitting  is  just  three  feet 
over  the  heads  of  the  rioters,  and  in  the  very  thick  of  the  tu- 
mult. Its  utter  absurdity  is  so  palpable  that  mademoiselle  de- 
clines to  notice  it. 

"  Mees  Owenson  is  aware  that  absence  from  the  playground, 
in  play  hour,  is  a  punishable  offence?"  goes  on  mademoiselle 
with  increased  ascerbity. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  quite  cheerfully  once  more  ; 
"that's  no  odds.  Nothing's  any  odds,  when  you're  used  to  it, 
and  I  ought  to  be  used  to  every  species  of  punishable  offences 
in  this  school  by  this  time." 

"  Mees  Owenson,  what  were  you  reading  when  I  entered  this 
room  ?  " 

"  A  book,  mam'selle." 

"  Mees  Owenson,  what  book  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well — a  story-book  then,  if  you  will  have  it,  by  a 
person  you  don't  know — a  Mr.  Dickens.  I  know  it's  against 
the  rules,  but  it  was  all  an  accident — upon  my  word  it  was, 
mam'selle." 

"  An  accident,  you  sitting  here  in  play-hour  reading  a  wicked 
novel !  Mees  Owenson  !  " 

"  It's  not  a  wicked  novel.  Dickens  never  wrote  anything 
wicked  in  his  life.  Papa  has  every  one  of  his  books  in  the 
library  at  home,  and  used  to  read  them  aloud  \'t  mamma.  And 


16  SYDNEY. 

I  mean  it's  an  accident  my  finding  the  book.  It  isn't  mine  ;  I 
don't  know  whose  it  is  ;  I  found  it  last  evening,  lying  among 
the  cabbages — honor  bright,  niam'selle  !  I'll  pitcli  it  back 
there  now." 

And  then,  before  Mile.  Stephanie  can  catch  her  breath,  Miss 
Owenson  gives  the  volume  behind  her  a  brisk  pitch  out  of 
the  open  casement,  and  it  falls  plump  upon  the  head  of  her 
sworn  friend,  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

There  is  a  moment's  pause,  and  teacher  and  pupil  confront 
each  other.  That  an  explosion  will  follow,  Miss  Sydney  Owen- 
son  fully  expects,  but  what  was  she  to  do  ?  Helen  Heine's 
name  was  on  the  fly-leaf.  Helen  Heme  was  a  day-scholar,  who 
surreptitiously  smuggled  story-books  inside  the  sacred  walls  of 
the  pensionnat  for  the  private  delectation  of  the  boarders. 
Helen  had  been  threatened  with  expulsion  the  next  time  she 
was  caught  in  the  act  "red-handed,"  so  to  say,  and  it  was 
much  more  on  Helen's  account  than  on  her  own  that  Sydney 
Owenson  was  palpitating  now. 

"  I  coaxed  so  hard  for  that  '  Pickwick,'  "  Sydney  thinks.  "  I 
hope  to  goodness  some  of  the  girls  will  pick  it  up  and  hide  it 
outside.  I  don't  mind  mam'seile's  flare-up — I'm  used  to  it — - 
but  I'd  never  forgive  myself  if  Nell  came  to  grief  through  me." 

She  looks  up  now  into  mademoiselle's  indignant  face,  clasps 
two  little  white  hands  imploringly,  and  begins,  with  that  voice 
and  smile  mademoiselle  herself  declares  to  be  the  most  charm- 
ing on  earth,  to  wheedle  her  out  of  her  just  wrath. 

"  Oh,  Mam'selle  Stephanie,  don't  be  angry,  please.  I  know 
it's  wrong  to  break  rules,  but  then  I  am  so  tired  of  the  stupid 
old  plays  out  there,  and  the  girls  are  so  noisy  and  rude,  and  my 
head  did  ache,  and  the  book  was  not  a  bad  book — upon  my 
word  and  honor  it  wasn't,  mam'selle  ;  not  a  bit  like  a  novel  at  all, 
and  I  did  rind  it  among  the  cabbages  last  evening,  and " 

Mademoiselle  Stephanie  knows  of  old  that  Miss  Owenson  is 
perfectly  capable  of  going  on  in  this  strain  without  a  single  full 
stop  for  the  next  hour.  Therefore,  without  a  word,  she  pulls  a 
letter  out  of  her  pocket  and  hands  it  to  her  pet  pupil. 

"  1  will  overlook  your  disobedience  this  once,  petite"  she 
said,  "  because  it  is  probably  the  very  last  time  you  will  ever 
have  a  chance  to  disobey.  Read  your  mamma's  letter,  my 
dear ;  I  know  what  it  contains,  as  it  came  inclosed  in  one  to 
me.  C/ierte,"  mam'seile's  voice  absolutely  falters,  "you — you 
are  about  to  leave  school." 

Sydney  Owenson  rises  to  her  feet,  the  great  gray  eyes  dilate 


SYDNEY.  17 

and  grow  almost  black  with  some  vague  terror.  She  looks  at 
her  letter — a  look  of  absolute  affright,  the  last  trace  of  color 
leaving  her  pearl-fair  skin — then  at  mademoiselle. 

"  Papa,"  she  falters.    "  Oh,  mam'selle  !  don't  say  papa  is " 

"  Worse  ?  -No,  my  dear.  You  poor  child,  you  are  as  white 
as  the  wall.  No,  papa  is  no  worse — it  isn't  that — it  is — but 
read  your  letter,  tres  chere  ;  it  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  be- 
lieve me,  my  dear,"  and  mademoiselle  lays  two  snuff-colored 
old  hands  kindly  on  the  girl's  shoulders,  "  no  one  in  this  school 
will  regret  the  loss  of  its  most  troublesome  pupil  more  than  I 
shall." 

She  toddies  away  and  leaves  Miss  Owenson  to  read  her  letter. 
"  Ah,"  she  sighs,  "  it  is  the  best,  the  tenderest  little  heart  in  the 
world,  after  all.  I  shall  never  love  another  pupil  so  well. 
Only  a  baby  of  seventeen,  and  to  be  married  in  a  month  ! 
Helas,  the  poor  little  one  !  " 

Sydney  tears  open  her  letter  ;  it  is  a  lengthy,  spidery,  woman's 
scrawl. 

"  OWENSON  PLACE,  October  25,  18 — . 

"  MY  DEAR  LITTLE  DAUGHTER  : — I  have  written  to  the  Made- 
moiselles Chateauroy,  telling  them  to  have  all  things  ready  for 
your  departure  on  Monday,  the  third  of  November.  You  are 
to  leave  school,  and  for  good.  Papa  is  not  worse  really,  but 
he  thinks  he  is,  and  he  pines  for  you.  He  has  taken  it  into  his 
head — you  know  how  hypochondriacal  he  is — that  he  will  die 
before  the  year  ends,  and  he  insists  that  you  must  be  married  at 
once,  else  he  will  not  live  to  see  it.  Now  don't  worry  about 
this,  Sydney.  I  know  how  foolish  you  are  concerning  poor 
papa's  whims,  and  it  is  only  a  whim.  Bertie  is  here,  came  by 
the  Cunard  steamer  from  England  three  weeks  ago,  and  is 
naturally  all  impatience  io  see  you.  It  is  a  very  absurd  whim 
of  papa's,  I  think  myself,  this  marrying  a  child  of  seventeen 
and  a  boy  of  twenty-two  ;  but  wliat  use  is  it  my  saying  so  ?  / 
was  nine-and-twenty  when  I  married  Captain  Owenson.  Still, 
I  am  sure,  I  hope  you  will  be  happy  ;  and  Bertie  is  so  nice  and 
good-tempered  and  gentlemanly  and  all  that,  that  any  one 
might  get  along  with  him.  Rebecca  will  reach  Petit  St. 
Jacques  Saturday  afternoon,  and  you  and  she  will  start  for  home 
on  Monday  morning.  Papa  has  actually  sent  to  Paris  for  your 
wedding-dress,  and  pearls,  and  veil,  as  though  good  enough 
could  not  have  been  got  in  New  York  City  ;  but  it  is  another  of 
his  whims  to  look  down  upon  everything  in  this  country,  and 


1 8  CYRILLA. 

think  nothing  fu  for  you  that  doesn't  come  from  Europe.  I'm 
sure  sometimes  I  wonder  he  ever  married  an  American  lady,  or 
that  he  found  a  school  on  this  continent  fit  for  his  only  child. 
1  know  he  would  have  sent  you  to  the  Sacre  Ctxnr  at  Paris,  only 
he  couldn't  bear  to  put  the  ocean  between  himself  and  you.  Bat 
this  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  So  bid  the  young  ladies  and 
teachers  good-by,  and  be  ready  to  start  on  Monday  morning 
with  Rebecca. 

"  Your  affectionate  Mother, 

"  CHARLOTTE  OWENSON. 

"  P.S. — Bertie  sends  his  love  and  a  kiss,  he  says,  to  all  the 
pretty  girls  in  the  school.  He  is  as  foolish  as  ever,  but  very 
handsome  and  elegant,  I  must  say.  Christ  Church  College  has 
improved  him  greatly.  He  wanted  to  accompany  Rebecca, 
but,  of  course,  I  wouldn't  hear  of  anything  so  improper  as 
that.  C.  O. 

"  P.S.  No.  2. — By  the  by,  papa  says  you  may  invite  your 
particular  friend,  Miss  Hendrick.  if  you  like,  to  be  one  of  your 
bridemaids.  He  knew  her  aunt,  Miss  Phillis  Dormer,  in 
England,  and  her  mother  comes  of  one  of  the  best  families  in 
Dorsetshire.  As  if  the  best  family  in  Dorsetshire  mattered  in 
America.  C.  O." 


CHAPTER   II. 

CYRILLA. 


JHE  long,  loosely  written,  rambling  letter  dropped  on 
Sydney's  lap,  her  hands  folded  over  it,  and  she  sat 
strangely  quiet  (for  her),  looking  out  at  the  faint  opaline 
twilight  sky.  To  leave  school  on  Monday — to  be 
married  in  a  month  !  Surely  enough  to  startle  any  school  girl  of 
seventeen.  Besides  being  the  daughter  of  the  richest  man,  be- 
sides having  double,  treble  the  spending  money  of  any  other  girl 
in  the  pensionnat,  besides  having  silks  and  laces  and  jewels  as 
though  she  were  five-and-twenty  and  "  out,"  besides  having 
beauty  and  talent  and  goodness  and  grace,  Sydney  Owensor. 
had  one  othei  and  still  greater  claim  to  be  "  queen  rose  "  of 


CYRILLA.  19 

Mile.  Stephanie's  "  rosebud  garden  of  girls," — she  was  engaged  ! 
All  and  each  of  the  four-and-thirty  other  boarders  of  mam'selle — 
not  to  speak  of  the  one-and-twenty  day-scholars—looked  for- 
ward in  the  fulness  of  time  to  a  possible  lover,  a  prospective 
engagement,  and  an  ultimate  husband,  but  a  real  lover  and  a 
bona  fide  engagement  none  of  them  had  yet  attained,  with  the 
exception  of  Miss  Ovvenson.  That  heighth  of  bliss  Miss  Owen- 
son  had  reached  in  her  sixteenth  birthday.  The  midsummer 
vacation  over,  the  young  lady  had  returned  to  Canada  from  her 
paternal  mansion — a  solitaire  diamond  ablaze  on  one  slim  fin- 
ger, a  locket  (with  a  gentleman's  portrait  and  a  ring  of  brown 
hair)  around  her  white  throat — and  calmly  announced  to  all 
whom  it  might  concern  that  she  was  engaged. 

The  first  stunning  shock  of  surprise  over,  a  torrent  of  ques- 
tions poured  upon  the  blissful  fiancee. 

"  Oh  !  good  gracious  !  Oh,  Mon  Dieu  !  was  she  really  ?  Oh, 
how  nice !  Oh  !  c'est  charmant  ?  What  was  his  name  ? 
Where  did  he  live  ?  How  did  it  come  about  ?  What  did  he 
say  ?  Was  he  handsome  ?  Was  he  rich  ?  Did  papa  and  mam- 
ma know  ?  Oh,  what  a  love  of  a  ring,  and  oh,  how  splendid  it 
was  to  be  engaged  at  sixteen  !  And  when,  O  Sydney  1  when 
were  they  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  There  !  there  !  there  ! "  cried  Miss  Owenson  shrilly, 
breaking  away  from  fifty-six  eager,  excited  faces.  "  I  am  sorry 
I  told  you  anything  about  it !  One  would  think  I  was  the  only 
girl  in  the  world  ever  engaged  before.  If  you  leave  me  alone 
I'll  answer  all  your  questions.  Stand  off,  and  let  me  see.  '  His 
name  ? '  Well,  his  name  is  Albert  Vaughan — Bertie  Vaughan — 
a  pretty  name  to  begin  with.  '  Where  does  he  live  ? '  He  lives 
at  Oxford  at  present ;  at  least  he  was  on  his  way  back  there 
when  I  left  home.  '  How  did  it  come  about  ?'  Well,  it  didn't 
come  about ;  it  was  always  to  be,  destined  from  all  time,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  Ever  since  I  can  remember  anything,  1  re- 
member being  told  I  was  to  marry  Bertie  some  day,  if  I  behaved 
myself — family  arrangements,  you  see,  like  a  thing  in  a  story. 
'  What  did  he  say  ?'  Oh,  well,  he  just  came  to  me  on  my  birth- 
day, and  slipped  this  ring  on  my  finger,  and  said,  '  I  say,  Syd, 
I  want  you  to  marry  me  this  day  twelve  months,  or  thereabouts, 
you  know  ; '  and  I  said,  '  All  right,  Bert,  I  will.'  '  Is  he  hand- 
some ?'  Handsome  as  an  angel,  Helen — brown  eyes,  brown 
curling  hair,  fair  complexion,  rosy  cheeks  like  a  girl,  small  hands 
and  feet,  and  the  sweetest  little  love  of  a  mustache  !  '  Is  he 
rich  ? '  Poor  as  a  church  mouse,  Cyrilla — rut  got  a  sou  in  th« 


20  CYRILLA. 

earthly  world  ;  but  as  I  am  to  have  enough  for  both,  that  doesn't 
signify.  '  Do  papa  and  mamma  know  ? '  Of  course  they  know, 
goosies  !  Bertie  and  I  would  never  have  thought  of  such  a  thing 
if  papa  hadn't  told  us  to  think  of  it.  '  And  when  are  we  to  be 
married?'  Oh,  I  don't  know — not  for  ever  so  long.  I  don't 
want  to  be  married — it's  dreadfully  dowdy  and  stupid.  We  won't 
be  married  for  ages — not  until  I'm  old — oh  !  ever  so  old — twen- 
ty-one, may  be.  It's  nice  enough  to  be  engaged,  but  married — 
bah-hh!" 

Miss  Owenson  pronounced  her  "  bah  !  "  with  the  disgusted 
look  of  one  who  swallows  a  nauseous  dose,  and  sprang  to  her 
feet. 

"  I  say,  girls  !  let's  have  a  game  of  '  Prisoners'  Base  ; '  I'm 
dying  for  a  romp.  Come  ! " 

Miss  Owenson  had  her  romp  until  the  pearl  pale  cheeks 
glowed  like  twin  pink  roses,  and  the  vivid  gray  eyes  streamed 
with  laughing  light.  But  from  that  hour  a  halo  of  romantic  in- 
terest encircled  her. 

She  had  a  lover — she  was  engaged — she  would  be  married  in 
a  year.  Oh,  happy,  thrice  happy  Sydney  Owenson  !  Every 
month  or  so  came  to  her  a  letter  bearing  the  English  postmark, 
dated  "  Ch.  Ch.,  Oxford  " — real,  genuine  love-letters.  Mile. 
Stephanie  shook  her  head,  and  passed  them  over  in  fear  and 
trembling  to  her  engaged  pupil.  She  had  never  had  such  a 
thing  before,  and  to  a  certain  extent  it  was  demoralizing  the 
whole  school. 

Six-and-forty  youthful  heads  ran  more  on  lovers  than  on  les- 
sons, on  engagements  than  on  "  Telemaque  "  or  "  Chopin's 
Waltzes."  Miss  Owenson,  as  a  matter  of  Christian  duty,  read 
those  epistles  of  her  young  Oxonian  faithfully  aloud  to  her  six- 
and-forty  fellow-students.  On  the  whole,  they  were  rather  a 
disappointment.  They  contained  a  great  deal  of  news  about 
boating  on  the  Isis,  riding  across  country,  college  supper  parties, 
and  a  jolly  time  generally,  but  very  few  glowing  love-passages 
to  his  affianced.  Indeed,  beyond  the  "Dear  little  Syd"  at  the 
beginning,  and  "  Your  affectionate  Bertie "  at  the  end,  they 
didn't  contain  a  single  protestation  of  the  consuming  passion 
which  it  is  to  be  supposed  possessed  him. 

"  Of  course  not,"  Sydney  was  wont  to  cry  out  indignantly, 
when  some  of  the  more  sentimental  young  ladies  objected  tc 
these  love-letters  on  that  head.  "  You  wouldn't  have  Bertie 
spooning  all  the  way  across  the  Atlantic,  would  you  ?  I  sup- 
pose,  Helen,  you  would  like  the  sort  of  letters  Lord  Mortimer 


CYRILLA.  a» 

used  to  write  to  namby-pamby,  milk-and-waterish  Amanda 
Fitzallan,  '  Beloved  of  my  soul ! '  Ha  !  ha  !  I  fancy  I  see  Bert 
writing  that  sort  of  rubbish  to  me.  He  wouldn't  do  it  twice, 
let  me  tell  you  ! " 

As  may  be  seen,  Miss  Owenson  was  not  in  the  slightest  sen- 
timental herself — not  one  whit  in  love,  in  the  common  accepta- 
tion of  the  word,  with  Bertie  Vaughan.  "He  was  the  dearest, 
jolliest  old  fellow  in  the  world — Bertie,"  she  was  calmly 
accustomed  to  observe  ;  "  and  since  she  must  marry  some- 
body sometime,  she  would  rather  marry  Bert  than  anybody  else, 
but  to  go  spooning  as  they  did  in  books — no,  not  while  either 
of  them  kept  their  senses." 

She  sits  very  quietly  now,  the  letter  on  her  lap,  looking  out 
at  that  pale  yellow,  frosty  sky — a  little  pale,  and  very  thought- 
ful. 

Going  to  leave  school — going  to  be  married  !  All  the  old  life 
to  end,  and  the  new  to  begin.  And  the  old  life  had  been  such 
a  good  life,  such  a  pleasant  life ;  she  was  so  fond  of  school  and 
of  all  the  girls — well,  with  about  three-and-twenty  exceptions. 
She  could  never  play  "  Brother  Hermit,"  or  "  Hunt  the  Slipper," 
or  "Tag"  any  more — never  any  more!  Married  women 
never  jumped  skipping-ropes,  never  played  "  Puss  in  the 
Corner,"  or  got  people  to  swing  them  until  their  heels  touched 
the  beam  in  the  barn  each  time  !  Never  !  never  !  It  was  all  dull 
and  stupid,  and  dowdy,  being  married.  And  great  tears  rose 
up  in  Miss  Owenson's  gray  eyes  and  splashed,  one  by  one,  down 
upon  the  fatal  letter. 

"  All  alone,  Syd  ?  "  cries  a  brisk  voice,  and,  with  a  swish  of 
dingy  skirts,  Miss  Hendrick  is  in  the  room.  "  And  a  letter — 
another  /0?'<?-letter  !  Happy  girl !  Well,  '  blessed  are  they 
who  expect  nothing,  for  they  shall  not  be  disappointed  ! '  of 
whom  I  am  one.  And  how  is  our  beauteous  Bertie  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  from  Bertie,"  answers  Sydney,  hastily  wiping  away 
the  last  tear.  "  It's  from  mamma,  and" — a  great  gulp — "O 
Cy,  I'm  going  to  leave  school !" 

"  Happy  girl  once  more  !     When  and  why  ?  " 

"  On  Monday,  and — to  be  married." 

"  On  Monday,  and  be  married  !  Happy,  happy,  happy  girl  1 
I  wish  I  were  going  to  leave  school  on  Monday,  and  be  married. 
I  wouldn't  sit  by  myself  in  the  dark  and  mope,  I  can  tell  you. 
But  what's  all  the  hurry  about?" 

"Read  the  letter,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  placing  it  in  her 
hand,  and  looking  out  with  a  woe-begone  face  at  the  fast  dark- 


93  CYRILLA. 

ening  evening  sky.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five  more  evenings 
may  she  watch  that  little  white,  cold-looking,  half  moon  float 
up  yonder  among  the  tamaracs,  five  more  evenings  may  she 
listen  to  the  discordant  shrieks  of  the  thirty-four  boarders  mak- 
ing day  hideous,  and  then  never  more  for  all  time.  And 
another  large  tear  comes  plump  down,  at  the  misery  of  the 
thought,  in  her  lap. 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  reads  the  letter,  and  throws  it  back  with  an 
envious  sigh. 

"  What  a  lucky  girl  you  are,  Syd  !  A  father  and  mother  who 
dote  upon  you — a  rich  father  and  mother,  a  handsome  young 
husband  waiting  for  you,  and  all  the  freedom  and  gayety  of  a 
married  woman  yours,  at  seventeen.  While  for  me — ah, 
well !  "  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  as  poor  Freddy  used  to  say,  '  Life 
can't  be  all  beer  and  skittles'  for  the  whole  of  us." 

"  Freddy  !  "  Sydney  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  her  friend  with 
sudden  curiosity,  "  that  is  the  first  time  1  ever  heard  you  men- 
tion any  man's  name  !  Who  is  Freddy  ?  " 

"  Ah,  who  indeed  ?  "  Miss  Hendrick  answers  with  another 
half  laugh.  "  '  Thereby  hangs  a  tale,'  which  I'm  not  inclined 
to  tell  at  present.  But  I  say  again,  what  a  happy  girl  you  are, 
Sydney  Owenson  ! " 

"  What,  because  I  am  to  be  married  next  month,  Cy  ! " 
Sydney  cries,  opening  her  great  eyes  in  unfeigned  wonder. 
"  You  can't  mean  that." 

"  I  mean  that,  and  everything  about  your  life.  You  are  an 
heiress,  you  will  be  a  beauty,  you  have  people  who  love  you,  you 
make  friends  j^erever  you  go.  Why,  here  in  school  the  girls 
swear  by  you — even  snuffy,  priggish,  dried-up  little  Mam'selle 
Stephanie,  in  her  dreary  way,  is  fond  of  you.  At  sixteen  you  wear 

diamonds  and  '  walk  in  silk  array.'  While  I "  Again  she 

stopped,  with  a  gesture  that  was  almost  passionate  in  the  inten- 
sity of  its  envy.  Sydney  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  The  bitter- 
ness of  her  tone  and  words  was  a  new  revelation  ;  it  was  a 
contrast  indeed  to  the  usually  cool,  almost  insolent  serenity  of 
Cyrilla  Hendrick's  manner. 

"  While  you,  Cy,"  Sydney  supplemented,  "  are  ten  times 
over  better  looking  than  I  am,  sing  better,  play  better,  paint 
and  draw  better,  speak  four  languages,  and  are  the  cleverest 
girl,  mam'selle  says,  she  ever  had  in  her  school.  You  have  an 
aunt  who  is  fabulously  rich,  so  everybody  says,  who  has 
adopted  you,  and  whose  heiress  you  are  to  be.  While,  as  foi 
being  married •" 


CYRILLA.  2J 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  laughed,  as  Miss  Owenson  faltered  and 
paused,  all  her  easy  insouciance  of  manner  returned. 

"  While,  as  for  being  married,  I  have  only  to  walk  over  to  St. 
Jacques  Barracks  and  ask  any  of  the  officers,  and  they  will  take 
me  on  the  spot — is  that  what  you  want  to  say,  Syd  ?  And  I  sing 
well,  play  well,  paint  well,  and  am  a  famous  linguist  ?  Lucky 
for  me  I  am,  since  these  accomplishments  are  my  stock  in 
trade,  with  which,  until  some  man  does  compassionate  me,  I  am 
to  earn  the  bread  I  eat." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Don't  you  ?  You  never  suspected,  I  suppose,  that  my 
brilliant  role  in  the  drama  of  life  is  that  of  governess  ?  " 

"Governess!  What  nonsense,  Cyrilla.  The  rich  Miss  Dor- 
mer's heiress  and  niece  !  " 

"  The  rich  Miss  Dormer's  heiress  and  niece  !  Sydney,  would 
you  like  to  know  exactly  how  much  Miss  Dormer  means  to  do 
for  her  pauper  niece,  Cyrilla  Hendrick  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  Cy.  You  know  you  and  your  history  are 
darkest  mysteries  to  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  boarders." 

Cyrilla  laughed,  still  standing  behind  her  friend.  "  I  knew  it, 
chere  belle,  and  mysteries  we  all  like  to  remain.  Let  me  unveil 
the  darkness  to  you  a  little.  I  was  born  in  Paris  eighteen  years 
ago,  in  a  garret — mark  that,  daughter  of  Mammon  ! — and  my 
mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  baronet ;  my  father  was  the  only 
brother  of  the  rich  Phillis  Dormer.  My  father  was  one  of  the 
handsomest  men,  one  of  the  cleverest  men,  and  one  of  the  most 
utterly  unprincipled  men  in  Europe — a  thorough-paced  adven- 
turer, in  fact,  as  Aunt  Phil  takes  care  to  impress  upon  my  inno- 
cent mind  every  time  I  see  her — an  out-and-out  Bohemian.  Be- 
fore I  was  twelve  years  old  I  had  traversed  the  Continent  from 
one  end  to  the  other,  and  had  a  smattering  of  every  European 
language.  No  wonder  I  study  them  with  facility  now.  When  I 
was  twelve  my  father  came  to  England,  his  native  land,  and 
there,  in  the  parish  of  Bloomsbury,  we  set  up  our  household  gods, 
and  from  utter  vagabondism  went  in  for  moderately  respectable 
Bohemianism.  My  mother  was  dead — luckily  for  her,  poor 
soul  ! — and  I  was  housekeeper  in  the  Bloomsbury  establishment 
• — think  of  that,  Syd — at  twelve  years  old  !  From  that  until  1  was 
sixteen,  1  kept  my  father's  house,  and  I  saw  more  of  life — real, 
genuine  life — in  those  three  years  than  you,  mademoiselle — 
only  child  and  heiress — will  ever  see  in  your  whole  respectable, 
rich,  Bhilistine  existence !  Good  heaven,  Syd  !  how  happy  I 
used  to  be  with  my  handsome,  clever,  vagabond  father  and  my 
poor,  dear  little  Fred." 


24  CYRILLA. 

She  stopped — passionate  pain,  passionate  regret  in  her  face 
and  voice.  Sydney  Owenson  sat  listening  with  bated  breath 
to  this  marvellous  and  rather  shocking  revelation. 

"It  was  poverty,  Syd,  but  picturesque  poverty;  that  meant 
truffled  turkey  and  champagne  to-day,  and  a  dry  crust  and  a 
cup  of  water  to-morrow  ;  a  seat  in  the  upper  tier  of  a  Strand 
theatre  or  Astley's  circus  among  the  gods  of  the  gallery,  big 
bearded  men  to  take  me  on  their  knee,  and  kiss  me,  and  pet 
me ;  men  who  wrote  books,  and  painted  pictures,  who  wore 
sock  or  buskin,  who  got  tipsy  on  gin  and  water  or  Cliquot,  as 
their  finances  stood.  Men  who  taught  me  to  roll  up  their  ci- 
garettes, and  to  light  them  after.  By  the  way,  Syd,"  Cyrilla 
^roke  off  her  half-bitter,  half-cynical  tone,  ending  in  a  sudden 
laugh,  "  do  you  remember  the  night,  after  I  came  here  first,  that 
Miss  Jones  caught  me  smoking  a  rose-scented  cigarette,  a  doz- 
en of  you  standing  around  in  an  awestruck  and  admiring  row  ? 
She  told  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  got  mp 
punished.  I  vowed  vengeance,  and  the  vendetta  has  waged  be- 
tween us  ever  since." 

"  I  remember,  Cy.  And  what  a  superior  being  you  seemed 
to  me,  to  be  able  to  sit  there  and  smoke  off  four  cigarettes 
without  wincing  once  !  Go  on." 

"  Oh,  well ! "  Cyrilla  said  coolly,  "  there's  nothing  more  to  go 
on  about.  When  I  was  sixteen,  Aunt  Phil  sent  for  me,  and  I 
bade  farewell  to  old  England  and  my  jolly  Bedouin  life,  and 
came  to  America,  exchanged  the  tents  of  vagabondia  for  the 
red  brick  mansion  of  respectability.  She  found  me  half  sav- 
age, wholly  uneducated,  according  to  her  notions,  and  knowing 
a  great  deal  I  would  be  much  better  without.  She  sent  me 
here — unfolded  something  of  my  antecedents  to  horrified 
nia'm'selle,  and  I  had  to  pledge  myself  to  keep  my  disreputable 
history  to  myself  before  I  could  be  taken  into  this  spotless  fold 
of  youth  and  innocence.  That  is  three  years  ago — I  am  almo.st 
nineteen,  and  at  Christmas  I  am  to  leave  school  for  good." 

"  To  go  and  live  with  Miss  Dormer?" 

"  To  go  and  live  with  Miss  Dormer,  in  the  dreariest,  grue- 
somest  old  house  in  America  ;  companion  to  the  Grossest 
spitefulest  old  woman  on  earth  ?  Don't  be  shocked,  Syd — she 
is  !  I'm  to  read  to  her,  write  for  her,  play  for  her,  sing  for  her, 
sew  for  her,  feed  the  birds  and  cats,  and  run  her  errands,  all  for 
my  clothes  and  keep." 

"  And  her  fortune  when  she  dies?" 

"  Not    a   bit  of  it !      She   has  two  wills    made,    unsigned 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP.  «5 

One  bequeaths  her  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  endow  an 
asylum  for  superannuated  maiden  ladies  ;  the  other  bequeaths 
thaf  sum  to  myself,  on  condition " 

''  Well  ?  "     Sydney  cried  breathlessly. 

"  On  condition  that  I'll  swear — swear  on  the  Bible,  mind  ! — 
to  do  something  she  wants  me  to  do.  I  haven't  taken  the 
oath  yet,  and  1  believe,  oath  or  no  oath,  she  will  never  trust 
me  an  inch  farther  than  she  can  see  me.  '  There  is  bad  blood 
in  my  niece  Cyrilla'  " — Miss  Hendrick  glows  dramatic  when 
she  narrates,  it  is  a  high-pitched  old  woman's  voice  that  speaks 
— "  '  all  the  Hendricks  were  reprobates — all,  every  one  ! '  '  Do 
we  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles?'  My  niece 
Cyrilla  is — fortunately — the  last  of  the  tribe,  a  Hendrick  to  her 
finger-tips,  and  mark  my  words  !  my  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to 
no  good  end.'  " 

"  Ugh,  how  horrid  !  "  said  Miss  Owenson,  with  something 
between  a  laugh  and  a  shudder.  "  I  wonder,  thinking  that  she 
ever  troubled  with  you  at  all." 

"So  do  I  wonder.  She  means  to  utilize  me  until  the  final 
catastrophe  comes,  and  I  disappear  in  the  outer  darkness  to 
which  I  was  born.  It  is  a  wonderful  old  woman — Aunt  Phil  ! 
And  sometimes,  Syd,  sometimes,"  the  handsome,  youthful  face 
darkened  and  grew  sombre,  "  when  I  think  of  what  my  past 
was,  when  I  think  of  what  my  father  is,  when  1  think  of  what 
my  future  is  likely  to  be,  I  rank  Aunt  Phil  among  the  prophets, 
and  believe,  with  her,  that  her  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to  no 
good  end !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

SCHOOL  GIRL   GOSSIP. 

HERE  is  a  silence  for  a  while.  Cyrilla  Hendrick  has 
walked  away  to  the  curtainless  school-room  window, 
and  stands  looking  out  at  the  pale,  chill,  twilight  sky, 
where  a  white  moon  hangs  silvery,  a  few  yellow,  frosty, 
sparkling  stars  near.  The  tamaracs  shiver  and  toss  their 
feithery  green  plumes  in  the  evening  breeze,  a  breeze  that 
bears  a  prophecy  of  coming  winter  even  now  in  its  breath. 
Miss  Hendrick's  handsome  brunette  face  looks  darker  and 
sadder  than  Sydney  Owenson  has  ever  seen  it  before. 


26  SCHOOL-CTRL    GOSSIP. 

"Ten  minutes  and  the  study  bell  will  ring,  and  this  horrid 
tumult  end,  for  which  Dieu  merci.  Look  at  them,  Syd,  '  a 
motley  crowd,  my  masters,  a  motley  crowd.'  Ol  course,  all 
this  I've  told  you  is  strictly  sub  rosa.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie, 
poor  old  snuffy  soul,  would  go  out  of  her  senses  if  she  thought 
1  was  corrupting  her  favorite  pupil  by  such  improper  conversa- 
tion." 

She  half-turned  around,  all  her  gloom  gone,  the  airy  ease  of 
manner,  so  uncommon  in  a  school-girl,  and  which  constituted 
this  school-girl's  especial  charm,  back.  Independently  of  wealth 
and  social  position  (and  no  one  on  earth  thought  more  of  wealth 
and  social  position  than  this  waif  of  vagabondia),  she  liked  Syd- 
ney Owenson  for  her  own  sake. 

"  I  promised  not  to  tell,  you  know,  Syd  ;  and,  reprobate  as 
Aunt  Phil  thinks  me,  I  like  to  keep  my  word.  I  have  kept  it 
for  three  years  ;  all  those  noisy  girls  think,  as  you  thought  an 
hour  ago,  that  my  life,  like  their  lives,  has  been  the  quintessence 
of  dull,  drab-colored  gentility.  Your  papa  was  a  captain  in  the 
English  navy  once,  wasn't  he,  and  is  a  great  stickler  for  good 
birth  and  breeding  ?  I  wonder  if  he  would  ask  the  rich  and  re- 
spectable Miss  Phillis  Dormer's  niece  to  be  your  bridemaid  if 
he  were  listening  now  ?  " 

"  If  papa  knew  you  as  I  do,  he  would  like  and  admire  you 
as  I  do,"  Sydney  cried,  warmly.  "  Who  could  help  it  ?  I 
never  saw  a  man  yet  whom  you  did  not  fascinate  in  ten  min- 
utes if  you  chose." 

"If  I  chose?"  Cyrilla  laughed.  "Ah,  yes,  Syd,  the  men 
like  me,  and  always  will ;  let  that  be  my  comfort.  I  shall  be 
one  of  those  women  whom  other  women  look  upon  askance, 
and  know  as  their  natural  enemy  at  sight,  but  men  will  like  me 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Only  be  very  sure  of  this,  pretty 
little  Sydney."  She  took  the  pearl-fair  face  between  her  two 
hands,  and  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  You  need  never  fear  me." 

"  Fear  you,  Cy  ?     What  nonsense  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"This  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan  is  handsome,  you  say,  Syd?" 
was  Cyrilla's  inapposite  answer.  "  Let  me  look  at  his  photo 
again." 

As  a  rule  Miss  Owenson  wore  her  lover's  picture  and  locket 
affectionately  in  her  trunk,  but  she  chanced  to  have  it  on  to- 
day. She  snatched  the  slender  yellow  chain  off  her  neck  and 
handed  it  to  her  friend.  She  had  been  touched  strangely  by 
Cyrilla's  confidence,  more  touched  still  by  the  unexpected 
caress.  They  had  been  good,  friends  and  staunch  comrades  dur- 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP.  27 

ing  the  past  three  years,  with  the  average  of  school-girl  quarrels 
and  mike-ups;  but  never  before  had  Cyrilla  Hendrick  been 
known  to  kiss  her  or  any  other  creature  in  the  school.  She 
was  wonderfully  chary  of  enthusiasm  or  caresses  ;  set  clown  as 
"  that  proud,  conceited  thing  "  by  her  fellow-boarders,  admired 
and  envied  for  her  superior  cleverness  and  ease  of  manner,  and 
dark,  aristocratic,  high-bred  face,  liked  by  a  few,  Sydney  Owen- 
son  chief  among  them,  and  cordially  hated  by  the  many.  With- 
out knowing  why,  without  being  able  to  reason  on  the  matter, 
they  instinctively  felt  she  was  of  them,  but  not  like  them. 

She  came  into  their  midst  with  her  pauper  head  held  well 
aloft,  a  sort  of  defiance  in  her  black,  derisive  eyes,  a  sort  of 
superior  contempt  for  them  and  their  ignorance  of  life  in  hei 
slight  sarcastic  smile.  Wonderfully  reticent  for  a  girl  of  sixteen, 
she  yet  said  things,  and  did  things,  besides  the  smoking  of 
cigarettes,  that  proved  that  she  had  lived,  before  coming  here, 
in  a  very  different  world  from  any  they  had  ever  known.  The 
sketchy  outline  of  her  life  she  had  given  to  Sydney  Owenson — 
the  sketchy  outline  only — there  were  details  that  might  have 
been  filled  in,  which  would  have  raised  every  red-gold  hair  on 
Miss  Owenson's  pretty  head  aloft  with  dismay.  She  had  seen 
life  with  her  "  handsome,  clever,  reprobate  father,"  as  luckily 
it  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  daughters  ever  to  see  it.  Bacchana- 
lian nights  of  gambling,  song-singing,  wine-drinking,  and  festive 
uproar.  There  was  not  a  capital  in  Europe  which  she  and  her 
doll  had  not  visited  at  the  age  of  twelve.  She  had  spent  three 
whole  months  behind  his  chair  at  Baden-Baden,  with  a  pin  and 
a  perforated  card,  and  starved  and  feasted  as  he  lost  or  won. 
All  the  jolly  outlaws  of  Bohemia  had  lounged  in  the  shabby 
rooms  of  "  Jack  Hendrick,"  where  a  perpetual  "tobacco  par- 
liament "  seemed  to  reign.  Scions  of  aristocracy,  youthful 
sprigs  of  gentility,  deep  in  the  books  of  the  children  of  Israel, 
made  it  their  headquarters  and  lounging-place,  and  lost  their 
last  sovereign  to  their  genial  host.  Clever  painters,  whose 
pictures  hung  on  the  line  in  the  Royal  Academy,  had  painted 
"Little  Beauty  Hendrick" — as  Cyrilla  had  been  named — • 
painted  her  as  Cupids,  as  Undines,  as  Hebes,  as  gypsies,  as 
angels,  as  everything  a  plump,  pretty,  black-eyed  rosebud  of  a 
child  could  be  painted.  Clever  actors  gave  her  orders  to  their 
plays,  and  coached  her  in  small  private  theatricals.  Old  Jean 
Jacques  Dando,  teacher  of  the  ballet  of  the  Princess  Theatre, 
taughr  her  to  dance,  and  the  first  violinist  taught  her  to  play 
the  iiddlc.  She  could  jabber  in  live  different  languages  at 


2 8  SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 

twelve,  and  read  French  novels  by  the  wholesale.  Tall  booted 
and  spurred  military  swells  had  carried  her  aloft  on  their 
shoulders,  and  taught  her  to  roll  and  light  their  cigarettes. 
Midnight,  as  a  rule,  was  this  little  damsel's  hour  of  lying  down, 
and  noonday  her  time  of  rising  up.  Then,  in  the  midst  of 
this  jolly,  vagabond  career,  came  Miss  Phillis  Dormer's  offer 
and  its  acceptance. 

"Will  you  go,  Beauty  ?"  her  father  said,  doubtfully.  "It 
will  be  beastly  dull  without  you,  but  the  old  girl's  rich,  and  in- 
tends to  make  you  her  heiress,  no  doubt.  She'll  send  you  to 
school,  and  do  the  handsome  thing  by  you  when  she  dies. 
Will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  I'll  go,"  Cyrilla  answered,  promptly.  "  I'll 
pack  my  trunk  and  be  ready  at  once.  Freddy  says  there's  a 
steamer  to  sail  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Ah  !  Freddy  says,"  her  father  repeated,  still  looking  at  her 
doubtfully.  "  Look  here,  Beauty  !  I  wouldn't  say  anything 
about  Freddy,  or  the  rest  of  'em  over  there,  if  I  were  you. 
Just  tell  the  old  girl  and  the  other  Philistines  you  meet  that  you 
came  of  poor — poor,  but  honest — parents  you  know.  Mum's 
the  word  about  the  card-playing  and  the  scampering  over  the 
world,  and— the  whole  thing,  in  short." 

"You  may  trust  me,  father.  I  know  when  to  hold  my  tongue 
and  when  to  speak.  I  haven't  lived  with  you  sixteen  years 
for  nothing,"  calmly  says  Mademoiselle  Cyrilla. 

"  No,  by  Jove  !  "  Jack  Hendrick  cried,  admiringly.  "  You're 
the  cleverest  little  thing  that  ever  breathed,  Beauty  !  You 
know  on  which  side  your  bread's  buttered.  And  you'll  not  for- 
get the  dear  old  dad,  eh,  Cy  ?  out  there  among  the  purple  and 
fine  linen,  and  your  first  taste  of  respectability  ?  " 

So  Cyrilla  came  and  was  received  by  Miss  Dormer — a  pale, 
dark  girl,  tall  and  slim,  quiet,  silent  and  demure.  But  Aunt 
Phil  had  the  keenest  old  eyes  that  ever  sparkled  in  the  head  of 
a  maiden  lady  of  sixty,  and  read  her  like  a  book. 

"Ha!"  the  old  voice  scornfully  cried  ;  "you  live  sixteen 
years  with  Jack  Hendrick  and  then  come  to  me  and  try  to  take 
me  in  with  your  mock  modest  airs  !  But  I'm  an  old  bird,  and 
not  to  be  caught  with  chaff.  You're  a  very  pretty  girl,  Cyrilla 
—you  take  after  your  father  in  that — and  you  hold  your  beg- 
gar's head  well  up,  which  I  like  to  see.  You  take  that  and 
your  aquiline  nose  from  your  mother.  Your  mother  was  a  fool, 
my  dear,  as  I  suppose  you  know,  and  proved  her  folly  to  all  the 
*v9rld,  by  running  away  with  handsome,  penniless,  scoundrelly 


SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP.  29 

Jack  Hendrick.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  baronet,  and  en- 
gaged to  a  colonel  of  the  Guards — Lord  Hepburn  to-day — and 
she  ran  away  one  night,  just  three  weeks  before  her  appointed 
wedding,  with  your  father.  Ah  !  well,  she  paid  for  that  bit  of 
romance,  and  is  in  her  grave  long  ago — the  very  best  place  fo) 
her.  But  you're  a  Hendrick,  my  niece  Cyrilla — a  Hendrick  to 
the  backbone,  and  a  precious  bad  lot,  1  have  no  doubt.  J 
never  knew  a  Hendrick  yet  who  came  to  a  good  end— no,  nol 
one  !  and  you  take  care,  niece  Cyrilla,  or  you'll  come  to  a  bad 
end,  too." 

"  1  dare  say  I  shall,"  niece  Cyrilla  answered,  coolly,  seeing 
in  a  moment  that  perfect  frankness  was  best  with  this  extraor- 
dinary old  fairy  godmother.  "  My  father  always  taught  me 
that  coming  to  grief  was  the  inevitable  lot  of  all  things  here 
below.  At  least  1  hope  I  shall  do  it  gracefully." 

"I'm  going  to  send  you  to  school,"  the  old  lady  pursued, 
"  for  three  years,  and  mind  you  make  the  most  of  your  time. 
You  are  as  ignorant  as  a  Hottentot  now  of  all  you  ought  to 
know,  and  horribly  thorough  in  all  you  ought  not.  I  shall  send 
you  to  the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy,  at  Petit  St.  Jacques — a 
Very  strict  school  and  a  very  dull  place,  where  even  you  cannot 
get  into  mischief.  And  mind  !  don't  you  go  contaminating 
your  fellow-pupils  by  tales  of  vagabond  life  !  Don't  you  offend 
me,  niece  Cryilla  ;  I  warn  you  of  that." 

"  I  don't  intend  to,  Aunt  Phil,"  the  girl  answered,  good- 
humoredly.  "  I  shall  study  hard,  and  be  a  credit  to  you  ;  trust 
me.  I  know  my  ignorance,  and  am  as  anxious  to  shake  the  dust 
of  vagabondism  off  my  feet  as  you  can  possibly  be.  I  shall  do 
you  honor  at  school." 

She  had  kept  her  word.  She  was  brilliantly  clever,  and 
amazed  and  delighted  her  teachers  by  her  progress.  She  was 
the  pride  of  the  school  at  each  half-yearly  exhibition  ;  her  play- 
ing, her  singing  were  such  as  had  never  been  heard  within 
these  walls  before.  And  in  the  small  milk-and-water  dramas 
performed  on  these  occasions  she  absolutely  electrified  all  be- 
holders. In  truth,  she  did  it  so  well  that  the  Demoiselles  Cha- 
teauroy were  almost  alarmed. 

"  She  goes  on  more  like  a  real  play  actress  than  a  school- 
girl," they  said  ;  "  it  can't  be  the  first  time  she  has  tried  parlor 
theatricals." 

It  was  not,  indeed.  And  at  one  of  these  exhibitions  a  little 
incident  had  occurred  that  disturbed  Ma'm'selle  Stephanie  more 
and  more.  The  rooms  were  crowded.  "  Cinderella"  had  been 


30  SCHOOL-GIRL    GOSSIP. 

dramatized  expressly  for  the  occasion,  and  "  Miss  C.  Hen- 
drick  "  came  on  as  the  Prince,  in  plumed  cap  and  silk  doublet, 
acting  her  part,  as  usual,  con  amore,  and  making  much  more 
violent  love  than  ever  Mile.  Stephanie  had  intended  to  the  Cin- 
derella of  the  piece.  As  she  came  gracefully  forward  before  the 
audience,  singing  a  song,  a  tall,  dashing-looking  man,  an  officer 
newly  arrived  from  England,  had  started  up. 

"  It  is  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  by  Jupiter,  it  is  ! — Beauty  Hen 
drick  !  " 

Miss  Hendrick  had  flashed  one  electric  glance  from  her 
black  eyes  upon  him,  and  the  play  went  on.  People  stared 
the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy  turned  pale ;  pupils  pricked  up 
curious  little  ears  and  looked  askance  at  the  big  trooper. 
"  He  knew  Cy  Hendrick,  and  called  her  Beauty.  What  did  i' 
mean  ?  " 

The  performance  over,  Major  Powerscourt  sought  out  Mile. 
Stephanie,  and  a  low  and  earnest  conversation  ensued — the 
gentleman  pleading,  the  lady  inexorable. 

"But  I  knew  her  in  England,  knew  her  intimately,  by 
Jove !  "  said  the  gallant  major,  pulling  his  long  red  mustache 
in  perplexity.  "  Just  let  me  speak  to  her  one  moment, 
mademoiselle  ! " 

Mademoiselle  was  resolute. 

"I  would  be  very  happy,  monsieur,"  was  her  answer,  polite, 
but  inexorable,  "  but  it  is  her  aunt's  wish  that  she  makes  no 
new  gentlemen  acquaintances  and  renews  no  old  ones.  What 
Monsieur  the  major  asks  is,  I  regret,  impossible." 

"  Confound  her  aunt  ! "  Major  Powerscourt  muttered 
inwardly,  but  he  only  bowed  and  turned  away.  "  Little  Beauty 
Hendrick  !  and  here  !  By  Jove  !  it  will  go  hard  with  me  though 
if  I  don't  see  her." 

See  her  he  did  not.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  spoke  a  few 
low-toned  words  to  her  tall  pupil.  Miss  Hendrick  listened 
with  downcast  eyes  and  closed  lips ;  then  she  bowed. 

"  It  shall  be  as  ma'm'selle  pleases,  of  course,"  she  answered, 
quietly.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  transgress  even  the  slightest  of 
my  aunt's  commands." 

With  the  words  she  left  the  parlors,  and  appeared  no  more. 
Next  morning  she  went  for  the  midsummer  vacation  to  "  Dormer 
Lodge."  When  she  returned,  the  dangerous  Major  Powers- 
court  was  gone. 

Miss  Jones,  the  second  English  teacher,  had  been  one  of  the 
witnesses  of  this  scene.  Miss  Jones  set  hei  tun  lips,  and 


"SO    YOUNG,    AND  SO    UNTENDER."  31 

drew  her  own  conclusions.  She  hated  Cyrilla  Hendrick  with  an 
absolute  hatred, — hated  her  for  her  beauty  and  that  indefinable 
air  of  haughty,  high-bred  grace  that  encircled  the  girl, — hated 
her  for  her  bright  cleverness  and  talent, — hated  her  most  of  all 
for  her  cool  impertinence  to  herself.  There  was  a  long  debt 
standing  between  these  two, — a  long  debt  of  petty  tyrannies  on 
the  teacher's  part,  of  serene,  smiling  insolence  on  the  pupil's. 

"  And  if  the  day  ever  comes,  Miss  Hendrick,"  Miss  Jones 
was  wont  to  think — "  and  I  think  it  will — I'll  pay  off  every 
affront,  every  sneer,  every  scornful  smile  and  innuendo  with 
compound  interest." 

That  day  was  nearer  than  Miss  Jones  dreamed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  SO  YOUNG,  AND  SO  UNTENDER." 

ELI.,"  the  sweet  girlish  voice  of  Sydney  Owenson 
cried,  "  have  you  fallen  asleep  over  Bertie's  picture, 
Cyrilla?  What  do  you  think  of  it? — handsome,  isn't 
he?" 

Cyrilla  looked  up.  She  had  been  critically  examining  the 
well-looking  photographed  face  of  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan  through 
iier  eyeglass,  in  silence,  for  the  last  three  minutes.  The  dark 
eyes,  brilliant  as  stars,  were  a  trifle  short-sighted,  black  as  it  is 
possible  for  human  eyes  to  be,  and  consequently  the  least  attrac- 
tive feature  in  the  very  attractive  face.  She  dropped  her  glass 
now,  and  returned  the  portrait  to  its  owner. 

"Very  handsome,  Syd ;  but — you  won't  be  offended,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !     Why  should  I  ?     Go  on." 

"  But  rather  weak  and  womanish,  rather  fickle  and  unstable, 
I  should  say.  Not  the  sort  of  man  to  pin  your  faith  to  too 
securely.  Men  with  that  sort  of  mouth  and  these  pretty,  girlish 
dimples  in  the  chin  are  always  weak-minded.  You  don't  mind 
my  saying  this,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Poor,  dear  old  Bertie  !  I  think  I  like  weak- 
minded  men,  Cy.  If  he  were  stern  and  dignified,  and  all  that, 
he  might  think  me  silly  and  frivolous,  as  I  am,  I  daresay,  and 
try  to  improve  me,  and  not  let  me  have  my  own  way.  I  should 


3*  "SO    YOUNG,   AND  SO    VNTENDER." 

hate  being  improved,  and  I  always  mean  to  have  my  own  way. 
Yes,  Cy,  i  prefer  weak-minded  men." 

"  No,  you  don't,  Sydney.  You  may  think  co  now,  but  you 
don't.  You  want  a  husband  you  can  lean  upon,  trust,  and  look 
up  to.  And  there  are  such  men,  for  I've  met  them — glorious 
fellows,  worth  a  woman's  giving  her  life  for.  That's  the  sort  of 
husband  for  you,  cherie,  while  I " 

"Yes,  Cy." 

"  While  I  want  one  who  will  look  up  to  me — not  a  Bertie 
Vaughan  exactly — I  wouldn't  like  a  fickle  man — but  a  husband 
whom  I  can  rule,  who  will  let  me  henpeck  him,  in  short !  I 
couldn't  love  a  man  1  had  to  look  up  to — it's  dreadfully  tiresome, 
looking  up.  And  I  wouldn't  live  with  a  man  I  couldn't  love. 
It  would  bore  me  to  have  a  supreme  being  for  my  lord  and  master. 
And  I  never  mean  to  bore  myself.  Those  are  my  principles." 
Sydney  laughed. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  only  hear  her  !  One  would  think  she  had  all 
mankind  by  heart.  Have  you  ever  met  your  small,  gentle, 
henpecked  ideal,  Cy?" 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  over  her  face  a 
smile  broke,  a  smile  so  soft,  so  tender,  so  womanly,  that  for  a 
moment  it  transformed  her. 

"  Yes,  Syd,"  she  said,  softly  ;  "  I  have  met  my  ideal,  poor, 
dear  little  fellow,  and  loved  him  well,  before  I  ever  saw  you. 
Ah  !  those  were  the  best  days  of  my  life  I  begin  to  think ;  and, 
like  all  best  things,  they  are  gone  forever." 

"  You  can't  tell  that.  To  a  girl  as  handsome  as  you  are 
infinite  capabilities  lie  open,  as  Carlyle  would  say.  I  predict 
that  you  will  make  a  brilliant  match,  Cyrilla." 

"  I  mean  to,  Sydney.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  Every  accom- 
plishment, every  one  of  my  good  looks,  are  so  many  steps 
toward  that  end.  I  mean  to  marry  well — that  is,  a  rich  man. 
He  may  be  old  as  the  everlasting  hills,  he  may  be  ugly  as  Cali- 
ban, he  may  be  vulgar,  he  may  be  absolutely  idiotic — I  will 
twine  roses,  like  Titania,  around  his  ass's  head,  and  bow  myself 
down,  and  do  homage  before  him,  so  that  he  but  possess  the 
bags  oi  ducats.  Yes,  Syd,  my  aunt  may  design  me  for  a  life  of 
drudgery  in  her  bleak  old  house — /  mean  to  marry  one  of  the 
wealthiest  men  on  this  continent  before  another  year  ends." 

"  And  henpeck  him  afterwards  ?  " 

"  My  no  means.  That  is  my  ideal.  I  won't  henpeck  my 
wealthy  husband.  I  shall  simply  do  in  all  things  as  1  please. 
But  if  the  fortune  of  war  should  go  against  me,  Sydney,  and  J 


"SO    YOUNG,    AND  SO    UtfTENDER."  33 

fail  and  come  to  grief,  as  Aunt  Phil  says  I  shall,  I  wonder  if, 
under  all  circumstances.  I  can  count  upon  a  friend  in  you  ?" 

"  Under  all  circumstances,  Cyrilla,  through  good  report  and 
evil  report,  for  better  or  for  worse,  I  will  be  your  true  friend 
always." 

"  You  vow  this,  Sydney?  "  She  came  closer,  the  black  eyes 
eager,  dark,  intense  earnestness  in  her  face.  "  It  is  no  school-girl 
promise,  made  and  forgotten  in  a  moment.  You  mean  this  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart !  "  Sydney  exclaimed,  carried  away  by 
the  moment's  excitement,  her  fair  "  flower  face "  flushing. 
"  Your  faithful  and  firm  friend  to  the  end." 

"  Shake  hands  on  that ! "  Cyrilla  said,  holding  out  her  own  ; 
and  the  white,  diamond-starred  hand,  and  the  brown,  ringless 
one  met  and  clasped  for  a  moment  firmly  and  strongly  as  the 
clasp  of  two  men. 

"  It  is  a  compact  between  us,"  Cyrilla  Hendrick  said.  "  I 
have  a  presentiment  that  one  day  you  will  be  called  upon  to 
fulfil  that  promise.  There  goes  the  study  bell  at  last." 

"And  you  haven't  promised  to  be  my  bridesmaid.  Will  you, 
Cy?" 

"  Of  course.  If  your  father  will  write  to  Aunt  Phil  and  ask 
her.  I  know  she  will  be  delighted  to  say  yes.  In  common 
with  all  virtuous  people  she  has  the  intensest  respect  for  rich 
and  respectable  associations.  Apropos  of  the  rich  and  respect- 
able, we're  asked  to  a  small  dinner  at  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere's 
on  Friday  evening — Hallowe'en,  you  know.  Will  you  go?" 

"  Only  too  glad.  Who  knows — we  may  see  some  of  the  new 
officers.  You've  heard  that  another  regiment  was  quartered 
at  the  barracks  last  week.  The  colonel  may  fetch  some  of 
them  along." 

"  Ah  !  pigs  may  fly,  but  they're  unlikely  birds  !  "  is  Miss 
Hendrick's  more  expressive  than  elegant  answer.  "  No  such 
luck,  Syd.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  or  Mademoiselle  Jeanne 
will  be  along  as  usual,  to  play  sheep-dog  to  us  lambs — or,  worsa 
still,  Miss  Jones — and  turn  to  stone  any  military  interloper 
under  fifty  with  one  glance  of  her  Gorgon  eye." 
,  The  folding  doors  of  the  schoolroom  flew  open  and  Miss 
Jones  came  in,  the  four  and  thirty  boarders  at  her  heels, 
Cyrilla  sauntered  away  to  her  desk,  singing  as  she  went : 

"  Oh,  for  Friday  night, 

Friday  at  the  gloaming  ; 
Oh,  for  Friday  night — 
Friday's  long  a-coming." 


34  "SO    YOUNG,   AND  SO   UNTENDER." 

"  No  singing  in  study  hours.  Miss  Hendrick  ! ''  cried  Miss 
Jones,  sharply,  with  a  flash  of  her  pale  eyes. 

Cyrilla  smiled— the  smile  that  always  galled  Miss  Jones  mor<* 
than  words,  and  went  humming  on  her  way  unheeding  . 

"  Oh,  for  Friday  night, 
Then  my  true  love's  coming." 

"  I  shall  report  you  to  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy,  Miss 
Hendrick  !  "  Miss  Jones  angrily  cried. 

"  What !  again  ?  Poor  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy,  to  be 
compelled  to  listen,"  Cyrilla  answered,  mockingly,  taking  her 
seat  and  her  books. 

Silence  fell.  Five  and  thirty  girls  bent  five  and  thirty  heads 
over  five  and  thirty  books  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour — then 
the  loud  ringing  of  a  bell,  then  a  simultaneous  jump  of  five  and- 
thirty  girls  on  their  feet,  a  hustling  of  books  into  desks,  doors 
flung  wide,  and  a  marshalling,  two  deep,  Miss  Jones  at  their 
head,  and  in  strictest  silence,  down  stairs  to  the  refectory. 

The  meal  was  eaten,  still  in  silence, — Miss  Jones  read  aloud 
some  drearily  instructive  book,  then  back  to  the  school-rooai 
—  more  study — another  half-hour's  recreation,  and  then  to  their 
rooms  for  the  night.  It  was  one  among  Miss  Jones's  manifold 
duties,  to  go  the  round  of  the  rooms  and  remove  the  lights. 
The  chamber  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick  and  her  companion  was  the 
very  last  of  the  row,  but  to  that  room  Miss  Jones  spitefully 
went  first.  Miss  Hendrick  was  busily  writing  out  to-morrow's 
German  exercise. 

"  What !  so  soon  ?  "  she  cried  out.  "  Antoinette,  look  at 
your  watch.  Miss  Jones  must  have  made  a  mistake.  It's  a 
good  ten  minutes  yet  to  nine,  and  I  haven't  my  exercise  done." 

"  It's  nine  o'clock,  Miss  Hendrick,"  Miss  Jones  retorted 
grimly,  seizing  the  lamp.  "If  you  are  behind  with  your  exer- 
cise it  is  your  misfortune,  not  my  fault." 

She  paused  a  moment,  lamp  in  hand,  and  gazed  at  Cyrilla's 
indignant  face  with  ill-concealed  exultation. 

"  You  made  a  mistake  this  afternoon,  Miss  Hendrick.  I  am 
going  on  Friday  night,  in  charge  of  you  and  the  others,  to  Mrs. 
Delamere's." 

Miss  Hendrick  might  be  discomfited,  never  defeated.  At  a 
moment's  notice  she  was  ever  ready  to  do  battle  with  her  foe. 

"  Are  you,  Miss  Jones  ?  Poor  Mrs.  Delarjere  !  But  she 
must  expect  to  pay  auaie  penalty  if  she  will  ask  school-girls. 


"SO    YOUNG,   AVD  SO    UN-TENDER."  35 

For  myself,  I  dt  n't  mind,  but  one  can't  help  compassionating 
Mrs.  Delamere — with  her  natural  dislike  of  canaille,  too." 

It  was  a  coarser  shaft  than  even  Cyril!*  was  wont  to  wing. 
A  furious  look  was  her  answer.  Then,  arincd  with  the  lamp, 
Miss  Jones  had  left  the  room. 

"J/0M  Dieu  !  Cyrilla,  how  impertinent  you  are  ! "  the  French 
girl  exclaimed.  "  Are  you  not  afraid  she  will  report  you  to 
mademoiselle?" 

"  Not  a  bit  afraid.  Toinette  ;  the  principal  amusement  of 
Miss  Jones'  life  is  reporting  me  to  mademoiselle.  I  don't  know 
what  will  become  of  her  when  I  leave  school  at  Christmas,  and 
that  healthful  stimulus  is  taken  from  her  sluggish  blood.  Now, 
then,  Toinette — to  bed,  to  bed  !  " 

As  a  rule,  the  Demoiselles  Chateauroy  did  not  allow  their 
pupils  to  dissipate  their  minds  by  accepting  invitations  from 
their  friends  in  Petite  St.  Jacques. 

There  wer^  a  few  exceptions  made,  however,  in  the  graduating 
class  by  the  express  desire  of  parents  and  guardians.  The  girls 
were  to  quit  the  pensionnat  so  soon  and  "  come  out,"  that  to 
accept  a  few  invitations  to  innoxious  tea-parties  and  dinners 
could  do  no  great  harm.  But  even  on  these  occasions  one  of  the 
Demoiselles  Chateauroy  or  one  of  the  under  teachers  invaria- 
bly went  along  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  their  charges,  and  see 
that  the  masculine  element  was  not  too  dangerous.  It  was  an 
understood  thing,  paiticularly  when  an  invitation  came  from 
Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere,  that  no  officer  under  half  a  century 
was  to  put  in  an  appearance. 

On  this  eventful  Friday  afternoon,  then,  destined  to  make  an 
epoch  in  more  than  one  of  their  lives,  the  young  ladies,  five  in 
number,  with  Miss  Jones  in  the  role  of  guardian  angel,  set  out 
at  four  o'clock  down  the  Rue  St.  Dominique  to  Notre  Dame 
Street,  where  resided  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere,  Miss  Henclrick 
and  Miss  Owenson,  as  usual,  walking  arm-in  arm,  as  usual,  also, 
making  a  very  pretty  contrast — a  fact  which  the  elder  of  the  two 
at  least  very  well  knew.  Cyrilla  wore  her  one  best  dress — Aunt 
Phil's  Christmas  gift,  a  garnet  merino — its  rich  tints  setting  orT 
well  her  richer  beauty,  a  ruffle  of  thread  lace  at  throat  and 
wrists :  for  ornaments,  brooch  and  earrings  of  rubies  and  fine 
gold.  Miss  Henclrick  had  brought  these  jewels  with  her  from 
England,  and,  apart  from  their  intrinsic  worth  and  extreme 
becomingness  to  her  brunette  face,  valued  them  as  parting  gifts 
from  "  Freddy.'' 

"He  gave  them  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  aud  nearly 


36  "SO    YOWG,   AND  SO    UNTENDER." 

ruined  himself,  poor  little  dear" — Miss  Hendrick  always  spoke 
of  this  gentleman  as  though  he  were  seven  years  old — "  to  bay 
them.  As  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  would  say,  'Fred  is  as  poo- 
as  mouses  of  the  church.'  " 

Miss  Owenson,  in  turquoise  blue  silk,  her  drooping,  sun- 
bright  ringlets,  tied  back  into  a  knot  of  blue  ribbon,  falling 
loosely  over  her  shoulders,  looked  by  contrast  white  and  pure 
and  fair  as  a  lily.  She  wore  no  adornings,  except  her  shining 
engagement  ring  and  her  chain  and  locket. 

"  I  can't  quite  realize,  Syd,"  Miss  Hendrick  observed  thought- 
fully, "  that  this  time  next  month  you  will  be,  as  people  phrase 
it,  '  a  respectable  married  woman.'  And  only  seventeen  year* 
old  !  " 

"It  does  seem  absurd,  doesn't  it  ?"  Sydney  laughed  ;  "it  is 
absurd.  I  wish  poor  papa's  crotchet  had  taken  any  other  form  ; 
but  since  it  has  taken  this,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  obedience. 
I  would  do  much  more  unpleasant  things  than  marry  Bertie  to 
please  poor,  sick,  hypochondriacal  papa." 

Cyrilla  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  You  are  an  oddity,  Sydney — half  child,  half  woman  ;  I 
don't  quite  understand  you.  Do  you  love  this  Bertie 
Vaughan ?  " 

Sydney  laughed  again,  and  blushed — that  bright,  flitting 
blush  that  made  her  pearl-clear  face  so  lovely. 

"  Love  ? — love,  Cyrilla  ?  "  The  girl  of  seventeen  pronounced 
the  incisive  word  shyly,  as  most  girls  of  seventeen  do.  "  Oh, 
weli,  that's  another  thing,  you  see — something,  I  fancy,  one 
thinks  more  of  at  seven-and-twenty  than  at  seventeen.  Of 
love,  such  as  I  have  read  in  novels  and  poetry,  I  know  nothing. 
1  am  not  sure  I  ever  want  to  know.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out, 
love  and  misery  are  synonymous.  No,  I'm  not  in  love  with 
Bertie — I'm  tolerably  sure  of  that." 

"  Nor  he  with  you  ?  " 

"  Nor  he  with  me.  How  could  we — only  boy  and  girl  ? 
Since  I  was  ten  years  old,  and  Bertie  fifteen,  papa  gave  us  to 
understand  we  were  to  marry  some  day,  and  we  never  made 
any  objections.  I  like  Bertie  better  than  any  one  I  ever 
knew — that  is  enough." 

"  Enough  ?  Oh,  you  poor  child  !  You  like  Bertie — yes,  and 
some  day,  when  you  are  ten  years  older,  the  right  man  (they 
say  there  is  a  right  man  for  all  of  us,  if  we  only  wait  long 
enough)  will  appear  on  the  scene,  and  then — and  then,  Syd, 
you  will  wake  up  and  know  what  love  and  marriage  nu:an.' 


"SO    YOUNG,   AND  SO    UN  TENDER"  3? 

Once  more  Sydney  laughed  aloud — her  sweet,  clear,  heart- 
whole  laugh. 

"  Cyrilla  Hendrick  turned  sentimental  !  What  shall  I  hear 
next  ?  Have  you  been  reading  French  novels  lately,  Cy  ? — • 
that  sounds  like  an  extract.  Oh,  no,  Cyrilla!  " — the  girl's  face 
grew  suddenly  grave — "  I  am  not  a  bit  like  one  of  the  heroines 
of  your  pet  romances.  When  I  am  Bertie's  wife  1  will  love 
him — yes,  love  him  with  my  whole  heart ;  and  no  man  in  all 
this  world  will  be  to  me  what  he  will.  Of  love,  as  you  mean  it, 
I  know  nothing  ;  but  that  I  will  be  Bertie's  true  and  loyal  wifi 
I  know  as  well  as  that  I  am  walking  here." 

Cyrilla  smiled — the  cynical  and  most  worldly  smile  that 
often  marred  the  beauty  of  her  Titian-like  face. 

"  We  will  see  ! "  she  said,  prophetically.  "  Meantime,  what 
a  romantic  old  gentleman  your  papa  must  be  !  I  thought  that 
sort  of  thing,  affiancing  people  in  their  cradles,  went  out  of 
fashion  two  or  three  centuries  ago." 

"  it  is  simple  enough  after  all,"  Sydney  answered.  "  I  will  tell 
you  how  it  was,  Cy,  in  return  for  your  confidence  the  other  day. 
When  papa  was  a  very  young  man,  and  a  middy  in  the  British 
Navy,  he  was  guilty  of  some  youthful  indiscretion — I  don't 
know  to  this  day  what — but  some  act  that  if  brought  to  the  ears 
of  his  captain  would  have  disgraced  and  ruined  him  for  life. 
Mr.  Vaughan,  Bertie's  father,  was  second  officer  of  the  ship, 
and  Mr.  Vaughan  came  to  papa's  aid,  rescued  him  from  his 
danger,  screened  him — saved  him,  in  a  word.  Papa  could  do 
nothing  then  to  prove  his  gratitude,  but  in  his  heart  his  gratitude 
was  deep  and  strong.  Years  and  years  after,  -vhen  papa  had 
come  into  a  fortune,  and  was  married,  and  I  was  a  baby,  his 
turn  came.  Mr.  Vaughan  died  poor,  very  poor,  leaving  Bertie 
friendless  and  alone.  Papa  came  forward,  sought  him  out, 
brought  him  here,  and  adopted  him  as  his  son.  I  was  one 
year  old,  and  Bertie  six,  but  I  believe  even  then,  Cy,  he  des- 
tined us  for  each  other.  He  had  married  mamma  in  New  York 
— mamma  is  American,  you  know — and  finally,  when  his  health 
began  to  fail,  he  came  and  settled  there.  The  climate  agrees 
with  him,  and  mamma  prefers  it.  Bertie  was  at  Rugby  at  the  . 
time,  and  finally  went  up  to  Oxford.  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
three  years  before  last  vacation,  when  he  came  over,  and.  as  I 
told  you  girls,  gave  me  this  ring,  and  informed  me  he  intended 
to  marry  me  next  year.  Of  course  papa  had  told  him  to  do  it, 
and  1  am  sure  if  i  must  marry,  I  would  rather  marry  Bertie 
than  any  dreadful,  strange  man.  That  is  the  whole  story 
Cyrilla,  romantic  or  ubt,  as  you  like." 


38  "SO    YOUNG,    AND  SO    UNTENDER" 

"  H'm  !"  was  Cyrilla's  comment,  her  black  eyes  twinkling  ; 
"ivhat  a  comfort  it  must  be  to  your  papa  to  possess  so  clutifu. 
a  son  and  daughter.  I  am  curious  to  see  this  docile  Mr. 
Vatighan.  and  curious,  very  curious,  Syd,  to  see  how  this  ro- 
mantic marriage  turns  out." 

"You  are  welcome,"  Miss  Owenson  answered,  stoutly.  "It 
will  be  a  modern  case  of  Darby  and  Joan,  I  feel  sure.  When  we 
are  married  and  settled — we  are  to  live  at  home  with  papa  and 
mamma,  of  course — you  must  come  and  make  me  a  long  visit, 
and  we  will  look  out  together  for  the  ugly,  old,  idiotic,  wealthy 
Bottom  the  Weaver,  you  intend  to  marry." 

Miss  Hendrick  laughed,  then  sighed  impatiently— that  look 
of  dark  discontent  Sydney  had  learned  to  know  long  ago  over- 
spreading her  face  like  a  cloud. 

She  glanced  up  at  her,  half-wonderingly,  half-compassion- 
ately. 

"  Cyrilla,"  she  said,  holding  the  girl's  arm  a  little  closer, 
"  what  a  troubled  face  you  wear ! — what  a  troubled  face  you 
often  wear,  as  though  you  were  almost  sick  of  your  life." 

"  Almost  !  "  Cyrilla  Hendrick  repeated — "  almost,  Sydney  ! 
Why,  there  never  was  a  time  when  I  was  not  sick  of  my  life. 
I  have  an  infinite  capacity  for  discontent,  I  think — for  discon- 
tent, envy,  and  all  uncharitableness.  I  long  for  freedom,  for 
riches,  for  splendor,  for  the  glory  of  the  world,  more  than 
words  can  ever  tell.  And  drudgery,  and  poverty,  and  mean- 
ness have  been  mine  since  I  can  recollect.  But,  as  you  say, 
Syd,  I  have  a  handsome  face,  and  the  average  of  brains  behind 
it,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me,  if  out  in  the  big,  wide  world  I 
cannot  win  for  myself  a  place  in  the  first  rank." 

Sydney  Owenson  gazed  at  her  in  increased  wonder  and  per- 
plexity. Her  own  life  ran  on  like  some  clear,  shining  river; 
the  turbid,  restless  spirit  of  her  bolder  friend  she  could  by  no 
means  understand.  In  all  things  her  life  sufficed  for  her,  and 
had  from  the  beginning ;  with  her  niche  in  the  world  she  was 
amply  content.  This  craving,  never-satisfied  longing  for  the 
unattainable  was  to  her  a  marvel. 

"We  were  talking  of  love  a  few  minutes  ago,"  she  said,  try- 
ing perplexedly  to  work  out  the  puzzle.  "  Are  you  in  love, 
Cyrilla,  with  Freddy?" 

Cyrilla  laughed — the  sweetest,  airiest  laugh  was  Cyrilla's — • 
the  clouds  clearing  away  as  if  by  magic. 

"And  if  I  am,  Sydney,  you  don't  think,  I  hope,  that  has  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  1  Oh»  no  !  If  I  were  queen  cf  the  uuivcise, 


"PART  NOW,    PART   WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART:'   3« 

and  all  the  best  and  bravest  of  mankind  knelt  before  me,  I 
would  single  out  little  Fred  Carew  and  marry  him  from  among 
them  all,  and  care  for  him  as  greatly  as  it  is  in  me  to  care  foi 
any  one  besides  myself,  and  make  him  most  exquisitely  miser- 
able for  the  rest  of  his  mortal  life,  1  have  no  doubt.  But  with 
my  chronic  dissatisfaction  with  my  lot,  Freddy,  at  present,  has 
nothing  to  do." 

"  And  yet  you  are  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Fond  of  him  ?  Fond  of  Fred  Carew  ?  Ah  !  well,  Syd,  it's 
one  of  those  things  that  won't  bear  talking  about.  We  have 
said  good-by,  and  said  it  for  all  time." 

"  Who  knows  ?  You  will  one  day  inherit  Miss  Dormer's 
fortune,  marry  your  Fred,  and  live  happy  ever  after." 

"  Never,  Syd  !  I  opened  the  mysteries  a  little  the  othei 
day.  Let  me  open  them  still  more  now.  I  told  you  Miss  Dor- 
mer had  agreed  to  leave  her  money  to  me  on  one  condition 
— that  I  solemnly  swear  to  obey  her  in  one  thing — did  I 
not?" 

«  Yes— well  ?  " 

"Well — that  one  thing  is,  that  I  am  never  to  marry  Fred 
Carew.  Before  she  signs  her  will,  if  I  am  not  already  married, 
I  am  to  swear,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  that  never,  while 
I  live,  will  I  marry  poor  little  Freddy.  If  1  refuse  to  take  that 
oath,  or  if  I  break  it  when  taken,  1  forfeit  every  dollar.  No 
more  questions,  Syd,  and  get  rid  of  that  shocked  face.  Here 
we  are  at  Mrs.  Delamere's." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  PART  NOW,  PART  WELL,  PART  WIDE  APART." 

|RS.  COLONEL  DEL  AM  ERE,  a  fat,  fair,  and  forty  ma- 
tron  with  the  usual  comfortable,  placid,  stall  fed  look, 
came  forward  in  pearl-gray  silk  to  receive  her  youthful 
guests.     Miss  Sydney  Ovvenson,  her  especial  pet,  she 
kissed  with  effusion. 

"  You  darling  child  !  how  good  of  you  to  come  so  early  ! " 
she  whispered.  "  And  so  we  are  really  going  to  lose  you  foi 
good  1 " 


40    "PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART." 

"Who  told  you  ?  "  Sydney  demanded,  opening  wide  her  gray 
eyes. 

"  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy — I  called  yesterday.  Told  me 
you  were  to  be  married — a  little  girl  of  seventeen  !  My  pet,  it's 
a  shame  !" 

"  Is  it  ?  "  laughed  Sydney  ;  "  but  a  little  bird  has  whispered 
through  the  town  that  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere  ran  away  and 
was  married  at  sixteen  !  " 

"  So  she  did,  my  dear,  and  a  precious  simpleton  she  was  foi 
her  pains,"  Mrs.  Delamere  answered,  shrugging  her  ample 
shoulders.  "  Sydney,  why  did  you  fetch  that  shrewish  Misf 
Jones?  I  have  a  treat  in  store  for  you,  girls,  but  it's  against 
orders  —  three  contraband  admirers  who  are  dying  to  meet 
my  pretty  pensionnaires.  Miss  Jones  will  be  sure  to  spoil 
all." 

"Poor  Miss  Jones !  she  seems  to  make  enemies  on  every 
hand.  It  is  war  to  the  knife  between  her  and  Cyrilla.  Are 
you  really  going  to  introduce  the  new  arrivals  ?  1  heard  the 
regiment  had  come.  How  nice  of  you  !" 

"  They  will  drop  in  after  dinner — the  colonel  dines  with  them 
at  the  mess,  and  will  bring  them  over  afterward.  You  are  to 
have  parlor  croquet,  and  a  carpet  dance,  and  go  home  by 
moonlight.  If  only  that  Miss  Jones  would  not  tell !  " 

"  How  plaintively  you  speak  of  that  Miss  Jones,"  Sydney 
laughed.  "  Let  the  most  fascinating  of  your  military  heroes 
make  love  to  her,  Mrs.  Delamere,  give  her  his  arm  home,  and 
so  seal  the  dragon's  mouth." 

Mrs.  Delamere  looked  doubtfully  across  at  Miss  Jones. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  pet  ?  But  then  she  is  so  plain,  poor  thing, 
and  not  so  young  as  she  was  ten  years  ago,  and  though  they're 
all  plucky  fellows  enough,  yet  I'm  afraid  they're  not  equal  to  it. 
However,  we  will  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  to-night,  if  we  are 
to  die  for  it  to-morrow." 

All  things  went  on  in  a  most  exemplary  way  for  the  next  two 
hours,  until  the  six  o'clock  dinner  ended.  Not  a  red  coat,  not 
even  a  black  coat,  made  its  appearance.  Games  of  all  kinds, 
books  of  all  sorts,  had  been  provided  by  Mrs.  Delamere,  the 
j oiliest  of  hostesses,  for  her  young  friends.  They  dined  together, 
waited  upon  by  a  solemn,  elderly  butler,  and  even  Miss  Jones 
was  amused  and  propitiated  by  Mrs.  Delamere' s  condescending 
kindness. 

"  I  really  want  the  poor  things  to  enjoy  themselves  this  even- 
ing, my  deai'  Miss  Jones,"  she  said,  confidentially.  "  You  must 


"PART  NO IV,    PART  WELL,    PAKT   WIDE  APART."    41 

permit  them  a  little  extra  liberty,  and  at  least  one  hour  more 
than  usual." 

Miss  Jones  fixed  her  dull,  glimmering  eyes  upon  the  colonel's 
lady,  scenting  danger  afar  off. 

"  My  orders  are  not  to  allow  my  pupils  out  of  my  sight, 
madame,"  she  answered,  stiffly  ;  "and  to  bring  them  home  posi- 
tively at  nine.  It  is  as  much  as  my  position  is  worth  to  disobey." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  my  dear  Miss  Jones.  I  will  make  it  all 
right  with  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy.  Do  recollect  how  little 
amusement  the  poor  things  have,  and  remember  we  were  once 
young  ourselves." 

It  \vas  the  most  unfortunate  appeal  the  good  lady  could  have 
made.  Miss  Jones  was  verging  upon  the  thirties,  a  period  when 
any  unmarried  lady  may  be  pardoned  for  becoming  sensitive. 
Her  leaden  eyes  absolutely  flashed. 

"  Mrs.  Delamere  is  very  kind,  but  my  orders  were  positive, 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  obey." 

She  set  her  thin  lips,  and  looked  across  at  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

"The  military  are  coming,  and  I  shall  spoil  your  sport,  my 
lady,  if  I  can,"  she  thought,  vindictively. 

Miss  Hendrick  at  the  moment  was  the  centre  of  a  circle  of 
laughing,  eager  faces.  They  had  adjourned  to  the  ample 
grounds  in  front  of  the  house,  and  seated  under  a  great  scarlet 
maple,  armed  with  a  pack  of  cards,  Cyrilla  was  gravely  lifting 
the  mystic  vail  of  futurity. 

"  I  see  here,  my  pretty  lady,"  she  was  drawling  in  true  gypsy 
tone  to  Miss  Owenson,  "a  sudden  journey,  and  a  change  in 
your  whole  life.  Here  is  a  fair  man,  who  is  destined  to  cause 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  Here  are  tears,  a  disappointment, 
a  sick-bed,  and — yes — a  death." 

"Cyrilla  !  "  Sydney  cried,  her  gray  eyes  flashing  indignantly. 

"It  is  on  the  cards — look  for  yourself,  and  very  near,  too. 
Here  is  a  dark  man,  this  king  of  spades,  who  follows  you  every- 
where, and  a  dark  wo. nan,  who  is  your  enemy,  and  comes 
between  you  and  the  fair  man,  and " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  as  suddenly  as  if  she  had  been  shot. 
For  a  voice  broke  upon  them  as  she  uttered  the  words, 

"  1  never  go  in  for  high  stakes,  myself,"  said  the  pleasant, 
lazy  voice  ;  "  say  ponies,  or  monkeys.  My  exchequer  never 
stands  anything  higher.  My  dear  colonel,  what  a  charming 
scene  !  a  veritable  group  from  Watteau,  and  sitting  on  straw, 
like  Marjory  Daw  !  These  are  the  young  ladies  Mrs.  Delarierc 
spoke  of,  no  doubt." 


42    "PART  NO nV,    PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART." 

The  speaker  raised  his  eye-glass  complacently,  and  stood  sur- 
veying the  "group  from  YVatteau,"  as  though  it  had  been  got 
up  for  his  especial  delectation.  He  had  spoken  in  an  under- 
tone, but  in  the  clear,  crisp,  still  air,  every  word  had  reached 
the  ears  of  the  fortune-teller.  She  did  not  start,  she  did  not 
look  up,  a  sudden  stillness  came  over  her  from  head  to  foot. 
Then  she  lifted  her  handsome,  high-bred  face,  and  went  cooll) 
on. 

"  The  dark  lady  is  in  love  with  the  fair  gentleman,  and  will 
do  her  best  to  part  him  from  you.  Whether  she  succeeds  ol 
not  is  not  on  the  cards,  but  I  see  here  no  end  of  trouble,  disap- 
pointment, sickness  and  tears." 

"A  very  dreary  prediction  for  lips  so  gentle  to  pronounce. 
Fairest  fortune-teller,  will  you  not  speer  my  future  as  well  ?  " 

The  gentleman  whose  bets  never  exceeded  "  ponies  or  mon- 
keys" had  advanced,  bowing  gracefully,  smiling  sweetly  upon 
the  fluttering  group.  The  seeress  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  pack, 
and  glanced  up  at  him  with  the  careless  indifference  of  a  prac- 
tised coquette.  But  Sydney  Owenson  saw,  and  Miss  Jones  saw, 
that  the  faint  rich  carnation  her  olive  cheeks  ever  wore  had 
deepened  to  vivid  crimson. 

"Certainly,"  she  answered,  with  perfect  sangfroid;  "cross 
the  sibyl's  palm  with  silver,  my  pretty  gentleman,  and  tell  me 
which  shall  it  be — past,  present,  or  future  ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  all  present  looking  on  in  a  flutter  of 
expectation,  a  startled  expression  upon  Miss  Jones'  vinegar 
visage,  a  bland  smile  upon  Colonel  Delamere's. 

"  The  future,  by  all  means,"  the  gentleman  answered,  making 
search  gravely  for  the  silver  coin.  He  found  a  sixpence,  and 
dropped  it  with  a  second  Chesterfieldian  bow  into  the  extended 
palm.  She  shuffled  the  cards.  "  Cut,"  she  said,  authoritatively. 

The  stranger  obeyed,  a  military  stranger  all  saw,  though  in 
mufti.  Miss  Hendrick  took  up  the  first  "  cut,"  and  began  to 
read. 

"  This  is  the  knave  of  hearts — you  are  the  knave,  monsieur  ! 
This  means  water — you  have  recently  made  a  long  voyage. 
There  is  the  queen  of  spades — a  dark  lady  whom  you  are  to 
meet  soon,  very  soon.  Let  me  warn  monsieur  against  this 
young  dark  lady  ;  she  will  cause  him  endless  trouble  and  mis- 
chief if  he  does  not  cut  her  acquaintance  at  once.  Here  is  a 
blonde  lady,  the  queen  of  diamonds,  immensely  wealthy.  Look 
at  all  these  cards  that  follow  her.  She  will  fall  in  love  with  the 
knave  if  he  sets  about  it  properly,  and  may  even  ultimately 


"PAR 7    VOW,   PART   WELL,  PART  WIDE  APART."    43 

marry  him.  She  will  not  be  young  and  certainly  not  pretty, 
but,  as  you  see,  she  has  a  fortune  that  is  immense,  and  that  is 
much  better  for  the  knave  of  hearts,  and  much  more  to  his  taste 
than  youth  or  pretty  looks.  The  dark  lady  is  poor,  and  really 
will  make  monsieur  no  end  of  worry  whenever  she  appears. 
This  card  certainly  means  a  wedding.  Here  it  all  is — monsieur 
turns  his  back  upon  the  evil-minded  dark  lady,  marries  the 
queen  of  diamonds  and  her  money  bags,  and  lives  happy  ever 
after." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  bowed  low  to  the  gentleman,  and 
turned  as  if  to  depart. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  boomed  out  the  big  bass  laugh  of  the  col- 
onel. "  By  Jupiter,  that's  good — eh,  Carew  ?  If  she  had  known 
you  all  you're  life,  by  Jove,  she  couldn't  have  hit  home  better 
— hey,  my  boy  ?  Let  me  introduce  you — Miss  Cyrilla  Hen- 
drick,  Mr.  Carevv  of  the — th  Fusiliers.1' 

"  Carew  ! "  The  gray  eyes  of  Sydney  Owenson  opened 
in  swift,  sudden  surprise.  She  glanced  at  Cyrilla,  strangely 
startled,  but  that  young  lady  was  bowing  as  to  one  she  had 
never  seen  before — the  gentleman  with  equal  gravity. 

Sydney  drew  a  long  breath.  After  all  Carew  was  not 
such  a  very  uncommon  name.  There  might  certainly  be  two 
men  in  the  world  who  bore  it.  If  she  could  only  hear  his 
other. 

"  Freddy,  my  boy,"  cried  the  colonel's  cheerful  stentor 
tones,  "  here  is  another.  Miss  Sydney  Owenson,  Lieutenant 
Carew." 

Freddy  !  She  flashed  a  glance  of  amaze  and  delight  across 
at  her  friend,  but  the  face  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick  was  beyond  her 
reading.  She  had-furned  partly  away,  with  only  the  usual,  half- 
indifferent,  half-disdainful  expression  on  the  handsome  brunette 
face. 

"  Mr.  Carew,  Miss  Jones,"  says  genial  Colonel  Delamere, 
and  Miss  Jones  makes  a  prim,  stiffish,  little  bow.  "  Made- 
moiselle Marie  Antoinette  Desereux,  Madamoiselle  Angele 
Garneau." 

Twice  more  does  Mr.  Carew  bestow  his  graceful  court-cham- 
berlain bow  and  smile  on  the  bread-and-butter  school-girls,  and 
then  he  is  free. 

"  Two  more  coming,  Rosebud,"  whispers  the  elderly  colonel 
to  Sydney ;  "  two  more — good  men  and  true.  Fred  Carew 
and  I  toddled  on  ahead.  How  does  Carew  compare  with  U 
beau  Bertie — eh,  little  pearl  ?  " 


44    "PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART." 

"  Mr.  Carew  is  very  good-looking  indeed,  sii  :  not  very  tall, 
but  that's  a  matter  of  taste,"  answers,  demurely,  Miss  Owen- 
son. 

"  And  a  bit  of  a  dandy — eh,  my  dear  ?  Regardez  vans,  as 
they  say  here,  the  lavender  kids,  the  shiny  boots,  the  swell 
hat,  the  moss-rose  in  the  button-hole.  That  coat  is  one  of 
Poole's  masterpieces;  but  I  suppose  you  are  not  capable  of 
appreciating  Poole's  chef-(? ceuvres.  But,  with  all  his  Dun- 
dreary ism,  he's  one  of  the  best  and  most  honorable  little  fellows 
that  ever  breathed,  is  my  young  friend,  Fred  Carew." 

"  Indeed,  sir." 

"Yes,  that  he  is.  I've  known  him  since  he  was  the  size  of 
this  cigar.  May  I  light  it?  Thank  you,  my  dear.  Miss  Hen- 
drick  hit  him  off  to  the  life — ha  !  ha  !  '  Rich  wife — not  pretty 
— not  young — lots  of  money' — ha  !  ha  !  ha!  Clever  girl,  very, 
that  handsome,  black-eyed  Miss  Hendrick.  Couldn't  have 
struck  home  more  neatly  if  she  had  been  his  mother.  Hasn't 
a  stiver  but  his  pay — Carew  hasn't — best  connections  going, 
but  no  expectations.  .  Terrible  flirt,  but  no  marrying  man. 
However,  that's  nothing  to  you,  my  dear.  You're  booked. 
Lucky  fellow,  that  young  Vaughan.  I've  heard  of  him.  Ah ! 
you  needn't  blush — if  I  were  only  twenty  years  younger  and  a 
single  man.  Well !  you  may  laugh  if  you  like,  but  Vaughan 
wouldn't  have  it  all  his  own  way.  Yes,  as  I  say — as  Miss  Hen- 
drick said  rather — a  wife  with  fifty  thousand  down  is  about 
Freddy's  figure.  The  widow,  or  the  orphan,  my  dear,  doesn't 
matter  which,  and  the  money  not  selfishly  tied  up  on  herself 
either." 

Thus  guilelessly  prattled  on  the  colonel,  while  Sydney  laughed 
and  watched  her  friend  with  intense  curiosity.  At  least  Colonel 
Delamere  did  not  dream  that  Mr.  Carew  and  Miss  Hendrick 
bad  ever  met  before — no  one  did  except  herself.  Yes — one 
other  !  Miss  Jones'  leaden  eyes  might  be  dull,  but  they  were 
sharp,  and  where  Cyrilla  Hendrick  was  concerned  hatred  had 
sharpened  them  to  needle-points.  She  had  noticed  the  first 
start,  the  first  flush  of  tell-tale  color  ;  she  had  seen  for  one 
moment  an  expression  on  her  foe's  face  she  had  never  seen 
there  before.  The  fortune-telling,  too,  had  been  peculiar.  Did 
she  mean  herself  by  the  "  dark  lady,"  Miss  Jones  wondered  ? 
Had  they  ever  met  before  ?  Had  they  met  before — in  England, 
for  example — and  was  there  some  reason  for  keeping  that  meet- 
ing secret  ?  She  would  watch,  and  wait,  and  see. 

Mr.  Carew  had  joined  Miss  Hendrick.  and  walked  away  by 


"PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  «PART."   45 

her  side.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke — the  young  lady  look- 
ing serenely  befo/e  her  straight  into  space,  the  young  gentle- 
man  watching  her  with  a  curious  smile.  He  was  the  rirst  to 
speak. 

"  Well,  Beauty  ?  " 

"  Well,  Freddy  ? "  Cyrilla  Hendrick's  black  eyes  turned 
from  the  horizon  to  his  face  at  last.  "  It  is  you,  Fred  Carew, 
then,  after  all.  How  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  astonishing 
do  you  come  to  be  here  ?  "  « 

"  What !  "  Mr.  Carew  said,  lifting  his  blonde  eyebrows,  "  do 
you  mean  to  tell  me,  Beauty,  you  did  not  know  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  Know  you  were  here  !  Good  Heaven  !  Fred,  what  a  pre- 
posterous question.  Freddy  Carew  away  from  Regent  Street 
and  Rotten  Row  !  Fred  Carew  out  of  sight  of  White's  Club 
House  and  a  Bond  Street  tailor !  No — the  human  mind  re- 
fuses to  take  in  such  an  antithesis  !  I  would  as  soon  expect  to 
meet  the  Czar  of  Russia  in  the  wilds  of  Canada  as  you,  Mr. 
Carew." 

"Ah!"  Freddy  sighs,  plaintively.  "You  can't  feel  sorrier 
for  me,  Beauty,  than  I  feel  for  myself.  But  the  fortune  of  war, 
my  dear  child,  however  cruel,  must  be  accepted  by  a  soldier. 
Still,  since  it  has  brought  me  to  you,  I  can't  say  I  regret  it." 

"  You  knew  I  was  here  ? — from  papa,  I  suppose." 

"  Your  papa  is  improving  the  shining  hours  in  Boulogne,  my 
dear  Cyrilla,  and  has  been  for  the  past  year.  No ;  1  kn^w  you 
were  in  Canada  somewhere,  and  that  knowledge  alone  made 
the  thought  of  my  exile  endurable.  I  had  no  idea  we  were  to 
meet,  until  this  very  day,  at  mess." 

"And  then " 

"  And  then  our  garrulous  friend,  the  colonel — '  our  old  lady,' 
the  fellows  call  him — let  out  the  blissful  secret.  '  Capital  place, 
Petit  St.  Jacques,  Freddy,  my,  boy,'  says  Delamere  to  me. 
'  Yes,  man  colonel]  I  answer.  '  Capital  place  for  a  man  to  go 
melancholy  mad  or  cut  his  throat,  1  should  say.'  '  Not  at  all,' 
retorts  my  superior  officer  ;  'lots  of  fun— famous  for  maple 
sugar  and  pretty  girls.  There's  a  whole  seraglio  of  beauties 
down  there  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  and  you're  to  meet  two 
of  the  prettiest  at  my  house  this  evening — azure-eyed,  golden- 
haired  Sydney — black-eyed,  raven  tressed  Cyrilla.  Take  either, 
tiiy  boy,  with  my  blessing — '  you  pays  your  money,  and  you 
takes  your  choice.'  Need  1  tell  you,  Beauty,  1  woke  up  at  that 
— at  the  sound  of  your  name  ?  '  Both  beauties,  bo.h  heiresses, 
my  boy,'  pursued  the  doddering  old  colonel ;  '  and  an  heiress 


46    "PART  NOW,    PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART* 

is  just  about  what  you  want  most,  I  should  say,  Freddy.' 
'  Precisely,  sir,'  I  answer  ;  '  to  which  do  you  advise  me  to  lay 
siege — belle  blonde  or  brunette  ?'  'Well,  my  little  Sydney, 
Miss  Owenson,  is  bespoken,  I'm  sorry  to  say,'  Delamere 
answers,  '  so  it  must  be  Miss  Hendrick.  Eyes  like  sloes,  lips 
like  cherries,  cheeks  like  roses,  and  the  air  of  a  duchess.  Yes, 
by  Jove  ! '  cries  the  vagabond  old  colonel,  smacking  his  lips, 
'  the  air  of  an  empress.  Benedicite,  my  son,  and  go  in  and 
win.'  So  I  came,  Beauty — I  needn't  tell  you  how  I  felt,  and 
you  met  me  as  though  you  had  never  seen  me  before.  I  made 
sure  you  knew  all  about  my  being  here,  and  were  on  guard." 

"  Not  I,"  Cyrilla  answered  ;  "  when  your  voice  reached  me, 
as  I  sat  there  telling  fortunes,  I  was  struck  dumb.  But  oh,  dear 
old  fellow  !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you — how  good  it  seems  to 
meet  a  familiar  face  in  this  desert  of  Canada." 

"  Miss  Hendrick  !  "  peals  forth  a  sharp-accented  voice ;  and 
Miss  Hendrick  wakes  up  almost  as  from  a  dream  at  the  too 
familiar  sound.  "  Miss  Hendrick,  you  are  wanted  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, to  sing." 

Mr.  Carew's  glass  goes  to  his  eye  ;  Miss  Hendrick  turns  half 
round  upon  her  foe,  with  her  usual  air  of  serene  impertinence. 

"  Couldn't  you  take  my  place  this  once,  my  dear  Miss 
Jones  ?  "  (Miss  Jones  has  about  as  much  voice  as  a  consumptive 
raven.)  "You  see  I  am  well  amused  as  it  is." 

"  I  must  insist  upon  your  returning  to  the  house,  instantly," 
cries  Miss  Jones,  in  a  rising  key.  "  My  orders  are,  as  you  know, 
not  to  let  you  out  of  my  sight." 

She  advances  upon  them.     Mr.  Carew,  his  glass  still  in  his 
^'e,  regards  her  as  he  might  some  newly-discovered  and  wonder- 
ful specimen  of  the  British  megatherium. 

"  But,  my  dear  Miss  Jones,"  he  begins,  in  most  persuasive 
accents,  with  his  most  winning  smile,  "  there  is  really  no  need 
of  all  this  trouble.  Your  natural  and  affectionate  anxiety  about 
Miss  Hendrick  does  equal  honor  to  your  head  and  heart,  but,  I 
assure  you,  no  harm  shall  come  to  her  while  she  is  in  my  care. 
I  am  ready  to  shield  her,  if  necessary,  with  my  life." 

"Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  orders  were  not  to  let  any  of 
my  pupils  out  of  my  sight  ;  more  particularly  Miss  Cyrilla 
Hendrick — most  particularly  with  gentlemen.  I  shall  obey 
mademoiselle's  orders,"  is  Miss  Jones's  grim  and  crushing  reply. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Freddy,"  Cyrilla  says,  in  an  undertone  ; 
"  we  must  go  back  and  part.  1  don't  care  for  her,"  motioning 
contemptuously  toward  Miss  Janes,  "  nor  for  Mademoiselle 


"PART  NOW,    PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART."   47 

Chateauroy  either  ;  but  I  do  care  for  Aunt  Phil.  To  offend  hei 
means  ruin  to  me  ;  and  the  deadliest  offence  I  can  give  her  is 
to  have  anything  to  say  to  you.  Let  us  go  back,  and  for  pity's 
sake  don't  speak  to  me  again  until  you  say  good-night." 

"  But,  Beauty,  this  is  absurd,"  says  Fred,  as  they  turn  to 
retrace  their  steps  ;  "  don't  speak  to  you  again  until  I  say  good- 
night !  What  ridiculous  nonsense  !  I  have  ten  thousand  things 
to  say  to  you,  and  I  mean  to  say  them  in  spite  of  all  the  Gor- 
gon aunts  and  grim  duennas  on  earth.  When  and  where  will 
you  meet  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  meet  you  at  all,  Freddy.  I  tell  you  it  is  impos- 
sible. I  am  watched  more  closely  than  any  other  girl  in  the 
school,  and  all  are  watched  closely  enough,  goodness  knows. 
Miss  Jones's  basilisk  eyes  are  upon  me  this  moment,  and  Miss 
Jones  will  faithfully  report  every  word  and  look  to  the  powers 
that  be  the  moment  she  returns  to  the  pensionnat, 

"  Hang  Miss  Jones  !  M 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  says  Cyrilla,  laughing  ;  "  nothing  would 
give  me  greater  pleasure.  At  the  same  time  I  can't  afford  to 
have  my  misdeeds  reported  to  Aunt  Phil ;  and  so,  sir,  let  us 
shake  hands  and  part." 

"  Never,  Cyrilla,  you  must  meet  me,  and  at  once.  Appoint 
some  place  and  time,  here  in  the  town,  and  I  will  be  there, 
whether  it  be  midnight  or  midday." 

"  Impossible.  1  am  never  permitted  to  stir  outside  the  gates 
alone  " 

"  Then,  by  Jove !  we  shall  meet  inside  the  gates.  I  will 
scale  the  wall  this  very  night,  and  you  steal  down  and  meet  me 
in  the  grounds.  Cyrilla,  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  say  no,  as  I 
see  you  are  going  to  !  It  is  three  years  since  we  met.  Have 
you  forgotten  all  that " 

"  I  have  forgotten  nothing,  Fred — nothing,"  the  girl  answers 
almost  with  emotion  ;  "  better  for  me,  perhaps,  if  I  had.  Yes, 
I  will  meet  you — at  least  I  will  try.  I  risk  more  than  you 
dream  of,  but  I  will  risk  it.  If  you  can  get  over  the  wall  of 
the  pensionnat  to-night,  I  will  try  to  meet  you  in  the  grounds." 

'•My  darling" — under  Miss  Jones'  argus  eyes,  Mr.  Carew 
takes  and  squeezes  Miss  Hendrick's  hand — "are your  windows 
high  ?  Do  you  run  any  risk  in  coming  down  ?  " 

"  I  run  risk  enough,  as  I  told  you,  but  not  of  that  kind. 
My  room  is  on  the  second  floor,  and  there  is  a  tree  close  to  the 
window,  from  whose  .branches  I  have  often  swung  myself  into 
the  playground.  Get  over  the  wall  about  eleven  to-night,  and, 


48    "PART  NOW,    PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART.1* 

if  it  be  possible  at  all,  I  will  meet  you.  But  mind — only  this 
once,  Freddy ;  not  even  you  will  tempt  me  to  do  it  again.'' 

"  You  will  write  to  me,  though,  Beauty,  and  allow  me 
to " 

"  No  letter  comes  into  or  goes  out  of  the  pensionnat  that 
does  not  piss  under  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  scrutiny.  No, 
Fred ;  there  can  be  no  writing  and  no  meeting  except  this  one. 
P'ate  is  against  us,  as  it  has  been  from  the  first.  We  were  not 
one  iota  farther  apart  when  the  Atlantic  rolled  between  us  than 
we  will  be  here  together  in  Canada." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen,"  Fred  Carew  answered.  "  My 
own  opinion  is  that  fate  has  not  brought  us  face  to  face  in  this 
queer  old  world-forgotten  town  for  nothing.  We  shall  meet 
— you  and  me,  'Rilla,  love — and  go  on  meeting,  please  Heaven, 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

They  had  reached  the  house.  Cyrilla  went  in  at  once,  while 
Mr.  Carew  lingered  and  allowed  Miss  Jones  to  join  him.  The 
yellow  half-moon  was  lifting  her  face  over  the  tree-tops,  the  air 
was  spicy  with  aromatic  odors  from  the  pine  woods.  Through 
the  open  windov/s  came  the  gay  strains  of  "  La  Claire  Fontaine," 
the  national  air  of  Lower  Canada,  played  by  Miss  Sydney 
Owen  son. 

"  Why  should  we  go  in  just  yet,  Miss  Jones  ?  "  says  Mr. 
Carew,  in  his  slow,  sleepy  voice,  with  his  slow,  sleepy  smile. 
"  It  is  a  lovely  night,  a  little  coldish,  but  I  perceive  you  have  a 
shawl  across  your  arm  ;  allow  me  to  put  it  on — you  may  take 
cold — and  permit  me  to  offer  you  my  arm  for  a  walk." 

He  removes  the  shawl  as  he  speaks,  and  adjusts  it  as  tenderly 
and  solicitously  about  Miss  Jones's  angular  shoulders  as  though 
it  had  been  Miss  Hendrick  herself;  then,  still  smiling,  he  offers 
her  his  arm. 

The  temptation  is  great.  Miss  Jones  is  nine-and-twenty,  and 
not  even  at  nineteen  was  her  head  ever  turned  by  the  nattering 
attentions  of  fickle  man  ;  and  Miss  Jones,  albeit  the  milk  of 
nuimn  kindness  has  been  somewhat  curdled  in  her  vestal 
breast  by  a  lfi»ng  course  of  refractory  pupils,  is  human,  very 
human. 

"  Do  come  !  "  says  Mr.  Carew,  sweetly.  "  It  is  really  a  sin 
to  spend  such  a  night  in-doors.  The  young  ladies  ?  Oh,  the 
young  ladies  are  perfectly  safe.  There  is  no  one  there  but  the 
colonel  and  Mrs.  Delamere.  The  other  fellows  said  they  would 
come,  but  they  haven't,  as  you  may  perceive.  Ail  the  better 
for  me,  Miss  JoneSi  smiles  Mr.  Carew,  drawing  her  hand  within 


"PART  NOW,    PART  WELL,    PART  WIDE  APART."   40 

his  arm,  "  since  it  allows  me  the  pleasure  of  a  tete-d-tete  stroll 
with  you." 

A  flush,  an  absolute  flush,  rises  to  Miss  Jones's  sallow  cheeks. 
Yes,  since  none  of  those  dangerous  military  men  had  come, 
there  could  surely  be  no  harm  in  a  little  walk  with  Mr.  Carew. 
She  coughed  a  little  cough  of  assent,  and  meandered  away  with 
her  subtle  tempter. 

"  Oh,  Cy,  look  !  do  look  ! "  cries  Sydney  Owenson,  springing 
from  the  piano.  "  Here's  richness  !  Miss  Jones  and  Mr. 
Carew  getting  up  a  flirtation  in  the  moonlight  !  She  nipped 
yours  in  the  bud,  and  now  she  leads  him  off  captive  herself!  " 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw  !  Yes,  by  Jove  ! "  booms  the  colonel  ; 
"  Carew  has  trotted  off  Miss  Jones  !  The  wolf  spares  the  lambs, 
and  makes  off  with  the  sheep-dog  !  Fred  Carew  turns  his  back 
on  four  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Canada,  and  begins  spooning 
with  the  old  maid  !  What  a  capital  joke  for  the  mess- table  to- 
morrow !  " 

"  A  most  capital  joke,"  says  Cyrilla  Hendrick  ;  but  her  black 
eyes  flash  as  they  follow  the  two  retreating  figures.  She  knows 
as  well  as  that  she  stands  there  that  he  is  doing  it  for  her  sake, 
martyrizing  himself  to  propitiate  the  dragon,  but  in  her  heart 
she  loves  this  elegant,  soft-spoken  dandy  so  passionately  well, 
that  the  bare  sight  of  him  flirting  with  even  poor,  plain  Miss 
Jones  is  hateful  to  her. 

The  lamps  are  lit  in  the  drawing-room  ;  song,  and  music,  and 
games  of  all  kinds  go  on.  An  hour  passes,  and  the  truants 
have  not  returned. 

"  You  don't  suppose  Carew  can  have  eaten  her,  Dorothy, 
my  love  ?  "  says  the  old  colonel,  with  a  diabolical  grin,  to  his 
wife.  "  Begad !  if  they're  not  here  in  ten  minutes,  1  shall  con- 
sider it  my  duty  to  go  in  search  of  them." 

They  enter  as  he  speaks — Mr  Carew  calm,  complacent,  list- 
less, but  not  looking  more  bored  than  customary — Miss  Jones 
with  a  flush,  either  of  pleasure  or  night  air,  still  glowing  frostily 
on  either  pippin  cheek. 

"  Mr.  Carew  asked  me  to  explain  the  process  of  converting 
maple  sap  into  maple  sugar,"  she  explains  elaborately  to  Mrs. 
Delamere  ;  "  so  we  wandered  down  by  the  grove  of  maples, 
and  really  I  had  no  idea  an  hour  had  passed." 

"  Pray,  don't  apologize,  my  dear  Miss  Jones,"  answered  Mrs. 
Delunii-iv,  demurely.      "I  am   only  too   grateful  to  Mr.  Carew 
if  he  has  helped  co  make  your  visit  agreeable.    What !  going  so 
soon  ?     Oh,  surely  not,  Miss  Jones  1 " 
3 


50    "PART  NOW,   PART  WELL,   PART  WIDE  APART.n 

But  it  is  past  nine,  and  Miss  Jones,  conscious  of  having 
swerved  from  the  stern  path  of  rectitude,  is  resolute.  So  the 
girls  flutter  up-stairs  after  wraps,  still  giggling  in  chorus  over 
Miss  Jones's  unexpected  flirtation.  Miss  Hendrick  does  not 
giggle,  she  smiles  scornfully,  and  transfixes  her  teacher  with 
her  derisive  black  eyes — a  glance  Miss  Jones,  for  once,  does 
not  care  to  meet. 

"  Begad,  Freddy,"  says  the  colonel,  when  the  ladies  have 
left  the  room,  "  I  expected  it  would  be  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight  with  you  this  evening,  but  I  didn't — no,  by  gad,  I  didn't 
think  it  would  have  been  with  the  old  maid." 

"  Miss  Jones  is  a  most  intelligent  and  well-informed  young 
lady,"  answers  Mr.  Carew,  imperturbably,  and  with  half  closed 
eyes.  "  I  am  going  to  see  her  home." 

They  flutter  back  as  he  says  it,  and  he  and  the  colonel  rise. 
Good-nights  are  spoken  while  Mr.  Carew  draws  on  his  overcoat 
and  gloves,  looking  very  elegant  and  amiable,  and  a  little 
vibrating  thrill  of  expectation  goes  through  the  group  of  girls. 
To  whom  will  he  offer  his  arm?  He  walks  up  to  Miss  Jones 
as  they  think  it,  with  the  air  of  its  being  an  understood  thing, 
and  once  again  draws  her  hand  within  his  coat  sleeve. 

"£n  avant,  man  colonel,"  he  says  ;   "  we  will  follow." 

The  colonel  gives  one  arm  to  his  favorite,  Sydney,  the  other 
to  Cyrilla,  and  leads  the  way.  The  two  French  girls  come 
after.  Mr.  Carew  and  Miss  Jones  bring  up  the  rear,  sauntering 
slowly  in  the  piercing  white  moonlight.  All  the  way,  along  the 
deathly  silent  streets,  the  colonel  cracks  his  ponderous  and 
rather  stupid  jokes.  Sydney  laughs  good-naturedly,  but  Cyrilla 
Hendrick's  darkly-handsome  face  looks  sombre  and  silent. 
They  reach  the  gates — Babette,  the  portress,  is  there  awaiting 
them.  Universal  hand-shaking  and  adieus  follow.  For  one 
second  Cyrilla's  cold  fingers  lie  in  Fred  Carew's  close  clasp,  for 
one  second  the  blue  eyes  meet  the  black  ones  meaningly. 

"  At  eleven,"  he  whispers  ;   "  don't  fail." 

Then  the  great  gates  clang  upon  them,  and  Babette,  yawning 
loudly,  goes  in  before  into  the  gray,  gloomy  pensionnat. 


WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW.          51 
CHAPTER   VI. 

WHY    MISS    DORMER    HATED    FRED    CAREW. 

jLL  is  still  when  they  enter  ;  the  pensionnaires  are 
safely  in  their  rooms  and  in  bed.  Mademoiselle 
Stephanie,  looking  like  a  snuff-colored  spectre,  in  a 
loose  white  wrapper,  awaits  them.  A  few  questions, 
a  recognized  formula,  are  asked  and  answered,  then  they  are 
dismissed  with  "  bon  nuif,  mes  cheries"  and  bed-room  lamps. 

"  In  twenty  minutes,  young  ladies,  I  will  come  for  the 
lights,"  is  Miss  Jones's  valedictory,  as  she  mounts  up  to  her  own 
room. 

"  Good-night,  Cy,"  Sydney  Owenson  cries,  gayly ;  "  don't 
dream  of  that  pretty  little  Mr.  Carew  if  you  can  help.  His 
mad  passion  for  Miss  Jones  is  patent  to  the  dullest  observer." 

"  Bonne  nnit  et  bonus  reves,  ma  belle"  Cyrilla  answers,  with 
rather  a  forced  smile,  "  we  would  all  be  happier  if  we  never 
dreamed  of  Mr.  Carcw  or  any  other  of  his  kind." 

'Toinette  goes  virtuously  and  sleepily  to  bed  at  once,  gaping 
audibly.  Miss  Hendrick  throws  off  her  hat  and  jacket,  draws 
a  volume  of  Dante,  in  the  original,  toward  her,  with  a  book  of 
Italian  exercises,  and  sets  to  work  translating.  So,  the  twenty 
minutes  up,  Miss  Jones  finds  her. 

"  Industrious,  upon  my  word  ! "  sneers  Miss  Jones.  She  is 
generally  worsted  in  the  fray,  but  she  can  never  by  any  chance 
let  her  enemy  pass  without  a  cut-and-thrust. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Jones,"  Cyrilla  replies  ;  "  and  if  I  continue  to 
be  industrious  until  I  am — well,  nine  and  twenty,  say — I  may 
hope  to  attain  the  elevated  position  of  fourth-rate  teacher  in  a 
second-rate  Canadian  school ;  I  may  even  aspire  to  entertain 
military  men,  six  or  seven  years  my  junior,  by  an  hour's  dis- 
sertation on  the  art  of  making  maple  sugar." 

She  rises,  with  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh,  and  begins  to 
unlace  her  boots.  Another  instant,  and  the  door  closes  behind 
Miss  Jones,  and  she  is  alone. 

It  is  a  vividly,  brilliantly  bright  night.  The  yellow  moonshine 
floods  the  room  as  Cyrilla  raises  the  window,  wraps  a  slviwl 
around  her,  and  sits  down.  'Toinette's  watch,  lying  on  the  dress* 
ing-table,  points  to  ten.  Another  hour  and  she  and  Fred  Ca- 
rew will  be  together  once  more.  Her  pulses  thrill  at  the 


52          WHV  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW. 

thought.  She  loves  this  man  ;  she  has  loved  him  since  she  waa 
ten  years  old— of  al'  the  bliss  1'fe  holds  it  holds  none  greater 
than  his  presence  for  her.  The  mystery  and  danger  of  the  ad- 
venture, too,  have  their  charm.  Life  has  gone  on,  for  the  past 
three  years,  so  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  that  to-night's  excite- 
ment and  wrong-doing,  if  you  will,  possess  an  irresistible  fas- 
cination. If  it  is  ever  discovered,  if  it  ever  reaches  Miss 
Dormer's  ears,  all  is  up  with  her  forever — her  last  hope  of 
Miss  Dormer's  fortune  is  gone.  And  she  longs  for  and  covets 
Miss  Dormer's  fortune,  this  school  girl  of  nineteen,  as  the  blind 
desire  sight.  Miss  Dormer  hates  Fred  Carew,  and  all  of  his 
name,  with  a  hatred  as  intense  as — even  Cyrilla  must  own — in  a 
retributive  light  it  is  just.  The  story  is  this — told  with  what 
passionate  intensity  and  vivid  fierceness  by  Miss  Dormer  her- 
self, the  girl  remembers  well. 

Forty  years  before,  the  father  of  Phillis  Dormer  had  died, 
leaving  a  fortune,  a  widow,  and  a  daughter  of  eight.  Two  years 
passed,  and  the  widow  was  a  widow  no  longer — she  had  taken 
for  her  second  husband  good-looking,  good-for-nothing  Tom 
Hendrick.  Of  that  marriage  came  Jack,  the  father  of  Cyrilla. 
If  Mr.  Tom  Hendrick  had  expected  to  possess  the  late  Mr. 
Dormer's  fortune,  as  well  as  his  widow,  he  was  doomed  to  be 
disappointed — the  sixty  thousand  pounds  were  tightly  tied  up 
on  Phillis.  And  Phillis,  even  as  a  child,  was  not  easily  to  be 
wronged. 

She  endured  the  reckless,  riotous  life  of  her  step-father's 
house,  the  daily  insolence  of  her  bold,  handsome,  half-brother 
Jack,  for  a  dozen  years  or  more  ;  then  her  mother  died,  and  Miss 
Phillis  Dormer  separated  herself  entirely  from  her  disreputable 
relations,  and  engaging  a  dame  de  compagnie,  set  up  for  herself 
as  an  heiress.  The  wife  of  the  member  for  her  native  county 
brought  her  out,  one  or  two  fine  ladies  took  her  up,  she  was 
presented  at  court,  ran  the  round  of  the  season,  and  finished 
by  finding  herself  engaged  to  Frederic  Dunraith  Carew,  nephew 
of  the  Earl  of  Dunraith. 

She  was  three  and  twenty  years  old,  slightly  lame,  and  most 
pathetically  ugly.  Fred  Carew  of  the  Blues  was  handsome  of 
face,  graceful  of  figure,  elegant  of  dress  and  manner,  all  that 
his  son  was  to-day,  and  more.  He  was  poor — a  beggar  abso- 
lutely, over  head  and  ears  in  debt — a  rich  wife  his  one  earthly 
hope  of  salvation  from  Queen's  Bench  for  life.  The  ugly,  the 
rich  Miss  Dormer  fell  in  love  with  him.  Mr.  Carew  was  told  so, 
pulled  his  lon^  blonde  whiskers  perplexedly,  thought  the  matter 


WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW.          $3 

over,  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  faced  the  worst  like  a 
man,  and  went  and  proposed  to  Miss  Dormer. 

She  was  intensely,  infatuatedly,  insanely  almost,  in  love  with 
him.  Like  many  very  plain  people,  she  had  a  morbid  adoration 
of  beauty  in  others.  Mr.  Carew  had  fascinated  her  at  sighi — 
he  continued  so  to  fascinate  her  to  the  end.  If  anything  could 
have  made  plain  Phiilis  Dormer  lovely  it  would  surely  have  been 
the  perfect,  the  intense  joy,  that  filled  her  when  Frederic 
Carew  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  Hers  was  the  perfect  love 
that  casteth  out  fear.  She  accepted  him,  she  trusted  him — in 
one  word,  she  bowed  down  and  idolized  him. 

The  noble  relatives  of  Mr.  Carew  were  delighted,  and  made 
most  friendly  advances  toward  the  bride-elect  at  once.  It  is 
true  the  sixty  thousand  pounds  had  been  made  in  coal,  but  the 
coal-dust  did  not  dim  their  golden  glitter  in  the  least.  There  had 
been  talk  of  some  penniless  girl  down  in  Berkshire,  with  two 
blue  eyes  and  a  pink  and-pearl  face  alone  to  recommend  her ; 
but  that  was  all  at  an  end,  no  doubt.  Fred  had  come  to  his  senses, 
and  realized  that  love  is  all  very  well  in  theory — a  pretty  girl 
well  enough  to  waltz  with,  but  when  a  wife  is  in  the  question 
the  thing  to  be  looked  at  is  her  bank  account.  Frederic  had 
done  his  duty ;  his  noble  relatives  were  quite  prepared  to  do 
theirs,  and  accept  the  coal  merchant's  heiress  as  one  of  trfe 
family.  The  season  ended,  they  invited  her  down  to  their  coun- 
try place  in  Sussex,  the  accepted  suitor  dutifully  playing  cavalier 
set-Taate  to  a  by  no  means  exacting  mistress.  She  gave  so  much 
and  was  satisfied  to  receive  so  little,  that  it  was  really  pathetic 
to  watch  them.  Frederic  was  perpetually  running  up  to  town,  and 
staying  away  days  at  a  time,  even  when  the  wedding  day  was  not 
two  weeks  off.  But  Miss  Dormer  asked  no  questions,  gave  him 
wistful  glances  and  smiles  at  parting,  joyful'glances  and  smiles 
at  coming — come  when  and  how  he  might.  In  secret  she  had 
made  over  her  whole  fortune  to  be  his  indisputably  in  the  hour 
that  made  him  her  husband.  A  fool  you  think  her,  perhaps. 
Well,  very  likely,  but  a  folly  none  need  quarrel  with,  since  it  is 
very  far  from  common. 

Three  days  before  the  wedding-day  there  was  a  dinner- 
party, given  by  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Dunraith,  in  honor  of 
the  approaching  nuptials.  Mr.  Carew  had  run  up  to  town  as 
usual,  two  days  before,  but  had  promised  to  be  in  time  for  the 
dinner.  He  failed,  however,  and,  to  the  chagrin  and  annoyance 
of  host  and  hostess  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  all.  The 
bride-elect  bore  it  bravely — something  had  detained  Fred  ;  she 


54          WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW. 

missed  him  sorely,  but  in  all  things  his  lordly  will  was  her  law, 
"  The  king  could  do  no  wrong." 

One  hour  after  dinner,  as  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room,  listen 
ing  to  the  song  Lady  Dunraith  was  softly  singing,  looking  out 
at  the  tremulous  beauty  of  the  summer  twilight,  gemmed  with 
golden  stars,  and  wondering  wistfully  whereabouts  her  darling 
might  be,  a  note  was  presented  to  her  by  a  servant.  It  was  from 
him — her  heart  gave  a  glad  bound.  This  was  to  explain  satis- 
factorily his  absence,  no  doubt.  With  a  smile  she  opened  the 
note  ;  from  that  hour  until  the  hour  she  died  no  smile  like  that 
ever  softened  the  hard  face  of  Phillis  Dormer. 


"  DOVER,  September  iSt/i, . 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  DORMER  : — While  waiting  for  the  Calais 
boat  I  drop  you  a  line.  I  am  awfully  sorry  to  disappoint  you  ; 
but  really,  when  it  came  to  the  point,  I  was  not  equal  to  it.  I 
mean  my  marriage  with  you.  Besides,  I  was  engaged  to 
another  young  lady  before  I  ever  knew  you,  and  my  honor  was 
seriously  compromised.  She  is  poor,  but  we  must  make  up  our 
minds  to  that,  I  suppose,  somehow.  '  Better  is  a  dinner  of 
herbs  where  love  abideth  than  a  stalled  ox  and  contention.'  1 
was  married  this  morning,  and  we  are  now  on  our  way  to  Paris 
to  spend  the  honeymoon.  Regretting  once  more  any  little  dis- 
appointment I  may  have  caused  you,  I  remain,  dear  Miss  Dor- 
mer, very  truly  yours,  FREDERIC  DUNRAITH  CAREW." 


"  Love  not !  love  not !  Oh,  warning  vainly  said,"  sang  Lady 
Dunraith  at  the  piano.  Phillis  Dormer  crushed  the  note — the 
curiously  heartless  note — in  her  hand,  and  listened  to  the  song. 
To  the  last  day  of  her  life  the  words,  the  air,  the  look  of  the 
violet-twilight  landscape  would  remain  photographed  on  brain 
and  heart.  She  had  loved  him,  words  are  weak  and  poor  to  tell 
how  greatly.  She  had  trusted  him  with  her  whole  soul.  From 
that  hour  she  loved  no  one,  trusted  no  one,  to  the  end  of  her 
life. 

Her  song  ended,  the  countess  came  over  to  her,  as  she  stood 
in  the  bay  looking  fixedly  out  at  the  rising  harvest  moon. 

"  Was  that  note  from  Fred,  tiresome  boy  ?  Why  was  he  not 
here  ?  " 

"  It  was  from  Fred,"  Miss  Dormer  answered.  "  He  could 
not  come." 


MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED   CAREW.         55 

Lady  Dunraith  looked  at  her  curiously.  ~What  a  livid  color 
her  face  was  !  what  a  black,  dilated  look  there  was  in  her  eyes  I 
'•  Fred  is  well  ?  "  she  anxiously  asked. 

"  He  is  quite  well,  I  think,  Lady  Dunraith." 

Her  ladyship  moved  away,  too  well-bred  to  ask  further  ques- 
tions. An  hour  later — without  one  farewell,  without  taking  a 
single  one  of  all  her  trunks  or  boxes — Phillis  Dormer  vanished 
from  Dunraith  Park  forever. 

She  went  straight  to  London,  packed  a  few  things  with  her 
own  hands,  wrote  a  brief  letter  to  her  man  of  business,  sent  for 
a  cab,  drove  to  Euston  Square  Station,  and  disappeared  for  all 
time  from  London,  from  England,  fiom  all  who  had  ever  known 
her. 

Two  days  after,  the  truth  came  out,  and  all  London  was 
laughing  over  the  last  good  joke.  Fred  Carew's  pluck  had 
failed  at  the  eleventh  hour ;  he  had  shown  the  white  feather, 
and  fled  from  the  clutches  of  the  ugly  heiress.  He  had  run 
away  with  a  penniless  little  country  lassie,  pretty  as  a  rosebud, 
and  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  His  noble  relations  cast  him  off 
forever.  He  sold  out,  and  with  the  proceeds  lived  abroad,  and 
from  thenceforth  became  as  socially  extinct  as  Phillis  Dormer 
herself. 

Of  Miss  Dormer  no  one  knew  anything.  The  ground  might 
have  opened  and  swallowed  her  for  all  trace  she  had  left  behind. 
Her  solicitor  knew,  no  doubt,  but  he  held  his  professional 
tongue.  Her  half-brother,  Jack  Hendrick,  was  the  only  being 
on  earth  interested  in  her,  and  his  interest  was  chiefly  of  a  pe- 
cuniary nature. 

"  She  usen't  10  be  half  a  bad  sort  before  she  fell  in  with  that 
duffer,  Carew,"  Jack  was  wont  to  say.  "  Would  pay  a  fellow's 
debts  as  quick  as  look,  but  with  the  devil's  own  temper  all  the 
time." 

A  few  years  later  Jack's  own  little  romance  came  off.  The 
daughter  of  a  baronet  eloped  with  him,  of  which  elopement 
Cyrilla  was,  in  due  time,  the  result.  Then,  sixteen  years  after, 
came  that  letter  dated  "  Montreal,"  and  signed  "  Phillis  Dor- 
mer," asking  curtly  enough  that  her  niece  should  be  sent  out  to 
her  to  be  educated  and  decently  brought  up.  "  If  she  pleases 
me,  I  may  leave  her  all  I  possess  one  day.  If  she  does  not, 
she  can  go  back  to  you,  the  better  at  least  for  a  few  years  in  a 
good  school." 

Phillis  Dormer  had  gone  straight  to  Mon  real,  where  some 
cf  her  property  lay,  aud  there  buried  herself,  so  to  speak,  alive. 


5&         WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED   FR5D   CAREW. 

One  year  after  her  coming  she  read  in  the  Times  this  announce- 
ment : 

"  At  Brussels,  the  wife  of  Frederic  D.  Carew,  Esquire,  of  a  son." 

The  old  wound,  not  even  yet  seared  over  was  torn  open 
afresh.  In  a  paroxysm  of  fury  she  tore  the  paper  to  shreds  and 
trampled  it  under  her  feet,  cursing,  in  her  mad  rage,  the  man 
who  had  betrayed  her,  the  wife  he  had  wedded,  and  the  son  who 
was  born  to  him. 

Fifteen  years  after,  and  in  the  same  paper,  at  the  same  place, 
she  read  the  death  of  Frederic  Dunraith  Carew.  In  all  these 
years  no  softening  had  ever  taken  place  in  her  bitter,  desperate 
heart.  In  all  these  years  that  moment  perhaps  was  the  hap- 
piest. Now  he  was  as  lost  to  her  rival  at  least  as  to  herself — 
the  grave  held  him.  Bitter,  lonely,  wicked,  most  wretched, 
most  unrepentant,  she  lived  alone,  served  in  fear  and  dislike  by 
all.  Suddenly  the  resolve  seized  her  to  send  for  her  niece. 
Jack  Hendrick's  daughter  could  be  no  good,  but  she  was  the 
only  creature  on  earth,  except  her  worthless  father,  whom  she 
could  call  kin.  Old  age  was  upon  her — a  most  unlovely  old 
age — and  desolate  and  forsaken  her  heart  cried  out  for  some 
one.  At  least  this  girl  would  serve  her  faithfully  in  the  hope 
of  a  future  fortune,  and  ask  no  wages.  For  avarice  had  been 
added  to  her  other  infirmities,  and  Miss  Dormer,  once  generous, 
had  grown  a  miser. 

Cyrilla  came — a  slim  slip  of  a  girl,  with  Jack  Hendrick's 
dark,  thin  face,  and  bold,  black  eyes,  her  mother's  aquiline 
nose,  as  Miss  Dormer  said,  and  that  way  she  liked  of  holding 
her  pauper  head  well  up.  Cyrilla  came,  and  with  the  intense 
curiosity  of  a  woman  hungry  for  news  of  that  world  which  had 
once  been  hers,  Phillis  Dormer  plied  her  with  questions — 
questions  of  her  father,  of  her  father's  friends,  of  her  mother's 
family,  and  their  bearing  toward  herself. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them,"  Cyrilla  answered.  "  I  desire 
to  know  nothing.  My  mother's  relations  have  never  noticed 
me  in  any  way,  although  my  father  wrote  to  them  at  her  death, 
and  since  that  time  again  and  again." 

"  1  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  said  Miss  Dormer,  grimly.  "  Jack 
Hendrick  is  not  the  man  to  let  any  one,  who  has  the  misfortune 
to  be  connected  with  him,  alone  on  the  subject  of  money.  If 
he  had  known  my  address  I  should  ha/e  had  begging  letters 
from  him  by  the  bushel." 

"  Please  don't  say  anything  unkind  about  papa,  Aunt  Phillis," 


WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED    CARE W.          57 

the  girl  cried,  imperiously.  "  I  am  very  fond  of  papa,  and  he 
was  always  very  good  to  me.  And  he  always  spoke  well  of 
you." 

Miss  Dormer  found  her  niece  unpleasantly  reticent  for  a  girl 
of  sixteen.  Of  the  life  she  had  led  before  coming  here  Cyrilla 
seemed  able  to  give  but  the  most  meagre  details. 

"  Who  had  given  her  this  very  expensive  ruby  set  ?  Who 
had  given  her  all  these  handsome  books  of  poetry,  marked 
with  the  initials  '  F.  D.  C. '  ?  Oh,  a  friend  of  papa's — papa 
had  so  many  friends,  and  they  all  made  her  presents."  The  girl 
of  sixteen  had  heard  the  history  of  her  aunt's  exile,  and  was 
on  guard.  But  in  an  evil  hour  Miss  Dormer  swooped  down 
upon  her  quarry,  and  learned  all. 

It  was  an  album  that  told  the  story — a  gorgeous  affair  of 
ivory,  purple  velvet,  and  gilt  clasps,  that  her  niece  kept  always 
jealously  locked  up,  filled  with  cabinet-sized  photographs  of  her 
Bohemian  friends.  The  first  picture  in  the  book — a  finely- 
tinted  vignette  of  a  boyish  head  and  face — made  Miss  Dormer 
start  and  change  color.  She  glanced  at  the  fly-leaf.  The 
murder  was  out !  There  was  the  tell-tale  inscription : 

"  Beauty  Hendrick,  on  her  Fifteenth  Birthday,  from  the  most  Devoted 
of  her  Adorers.  FREDERIC  DUNRAITH  CAREW." 

.'' 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  shrill,  hissing  sort  of  cry,  as  though 
she  had  been  struck,  her  yellow  face  turned  green,  her  wicked 
old  eyes  absolutely  glared  with  fury.  After  all  these  years, 
.  when  the  man  was  dead  and  rotten  in  his  grave,  to  be  stung  by 
that  name  !  It  was  winter  time ;  a  large  coal  fire  glowed  in 
the  grate.  Miss  Dormer  sprang  from  her  chair,  and  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  Cyrilla's  elegant  album  was  on  the  bed  of 
coals. 

The  girl  darted  forward  to  the  rescue  with  a  scream  of  dis- 
may, but  warding  her  off  with  one  hand,  Phillis  Dormer  held 
it  down  with  her  stick,  not  speaking  a  word,  and  glaring,  as 
Cyrilla  ever  afterward  said,  like  old  Hecate  over  her  witches' 
cauldron.  So  she  stood,  holding  it  mercilessly,  until  it  crumbled 
upon  the  coals,  a  handful  of  black,  charred  ashes.  And  then 
the  storm  burst — a  very  tempest  of  fury  and  invective  hurled 
against  Cyrilla — "the  viper  she  had  warmed  only  to  sting  her" 
— against  her  father,  against  the  Carews,  sire  and  son.  it  was 
a  most  horrible  scene.  Even  the  girl's  strong  young  nerves 
shrank  with  a  shudder  of  disgust.  But  outwardly  she  stood 
3* 


58          WHY  MISS  DORMER  HATED  FRED    CAREW. 

like  a  rock,  her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes  flashing  black  light- 
ning. At  last,  exhausted,  the  old  woman  paused  from  sheer 
want  of  breath. 

"  This  is  the  sort  of  ingrate  I  have  taken  into  my  house,  is 
it  ?  This  is  the  sort  of  friends  you  and  your  father  have  made. 
My  curse  upon  them — the  living  and  the  dead  !  " 

She  shook  her  stick  in  the  air  more  like  one  of  Macbeth' s 
witches  than  ever.  Cyrilla  Hendrick  spoke  for  the  first  time, 
her  short,  scornful  upper  lip  curling. 

"  You  forget,  Aunt  I  Willis,  that  curses,  like  chickens,  come 
home  to  roost,"  was  what  she  said.  "  I  don't  think  your 
anathemas  will  hurt  Freddy  Carew  very  greatly.  You  are  a  bad 
old  woman,  Aunt  Phillis  Dormer,  and  you  may  send  me  back 
to  England  as  soon  as  you  like." 

Then  she  walked  out  of  the  room,  with  her  pauper  chin 
higher  than  ever,  and  the  air  of  an  outraged  grande  dame.  But 
in  her  own  room,  with  the  door  locked,  she  flung  herself  on  her 
bed,  and  cried  passionately,  cried  herself  sick,  for  the  loss  of 
Freddy's  portrait. 

Miss  Dormer  did  not  send  her  home.  The  first  outburst  past, 
even  her  warped  sense  of  justice  showed  her  that  the  girl  was 
not  so  much  to  blame.  She  could  not  be  expected  to  feel  the 
wrongs  of  the  aunt  she  had  never  seen  very  deeply,  and  no 
doubt  the  son  was  as  fatally  fascinating  as  the  father  had  been. 
Only  her  mind,  up  to  this  time  undecided  concerning  the 
disposal  of  her  fortune  (nearly  doubled  by  judicious  investments 
during  a  quarter  of  a  century),  was  made  up.  She  would  edu- 
cate her  niece,  she  would  select  a  husband  for  her.  If  her 
niece  married  the  man  of  her  choice  she  would  bestow  her 
fortune  upon  her.  If  not,  it  would  go  to  found  an  asylum  for 
maiden  ladies  of  fifty.  In  any  case  she  must-  so  secure  it  that 
by  no  possible  means  could  any  fraction  of  it  ever  come  to 
Frederic  Carew's  son.  On  their  next  interview  Miss  Dormer, 
quite  calm  by  this  time,  proposed  to  her  niece  the  oath  of  which 
Cyrilla  had  spoken  to  Sydney  Owenson — the  oath  never  to 
marry  Fred  Carew.  Miss  Hendrick  promptly  and  resolutely 
declined. 

"  1  am  thousands  of  miles  from  poor  Freddy,"  she  said.  "  I 
may  never  see  him  again.  I  never  expect  to  see  him  again — 
all  the  same,  Aunt  Phil,  I  won't  take  the  oath.  I  never  took 
an  oath  in  my  life,  and  I  never  mean  to.  Fred  is  as  poor  as  a 
rat,  and  always  will  be.  I  don't  suppose,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
he  will  ever  be  able  to  marry  anybody  unless  he  falls  foul  of  an 


WHY  M7SS  DORMER  HATED  FRED    CARE W.          59 

heiress.  For  my  own  part,  Aunt  Dormer,  find  me  a  rich  man, 
a  millionaire,  please,  and  I  will  marry  him  to-morrow." 

With  this  Miss  Dormer  had  to  be  content — the  niece  had  a 
will  of  her  own  as  well  as  the  aunt.  It  was  true  the  ocean 
rolled  between  them,  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  correspond 
at  Mile.  Chateauroy's  pensionnat — there  was  really  no  present 
danger.  He  was  poor,  as  Cyrilla  had  said,  and  Cyrilla  was  not 
the  kind  of  girl  to  throw  herself  away  upon  a  poor  man,  let  her 
girlish  fancy  for  him  be  ever  so  great — not  the  sort  of  girl  whose 
heart  is  stronger  than  her  head — a  sort,  indeed,  that  is  pretty 
nearly  obsolete — latter-day  young  ladies  having  a  much  more 
appreciative  eye  for  the  main  chance  than  for  the  exploded 
"  love  in  a  cottage." 

Last  midsummer  vacation  Cyrilla  had  met  at  her  aunt's  house 
a  middle-aged,  sandy-haired,  high-cheek-boned  gentleman,  in- 
troduced to  her  as  M r.  Donald  McKelpin.  Mr.  Donald  McKeU 
pin  had  expressed  his  pleasure  in  a  pompous  and  ponderous  way, 
set  to  a  fine  Glasgow  accent,  at  making  her  acquaintance,  ac- 
companied by  a  look  of  broad,  undisguised  admiration.  Upon 
his  departure  Miss  Dormer  informed  her  .niece  that  this  was  the 
gentleman  upon  whom  she  designed  her  to  bestow  her  hand  and 
fortune,  a  gentleman  in  the  soap-and-candle  line,  at  whose 
Midas  touch  all  things  turned  to  gold. 

"  Very  well,  Aunt  Phil,"  had  been  the  young  lady's  submis- 
sive answer,  "just  as  you  please.  One  might  wish  him  twenty 
years  this  side  of  fifty,  and  with  tresses  a  trirle  less  obnoxiously 
fiery,  but  after  all  one  doesn't  rnarry  a  man  to  sit  and  look  at 
him.  Whenever  it  is  Sultan  McKelpin's  pleasure  to  throw  the 
handkerchief  his  grateful  slave  will  pick  it  up.  Whenever  he  is 
ready  to  make  me,  I  am  ready  to  become"  —  mimicking  to  the 
life  the  broad  Scotch  accent — "  Mistress  Donald  McKelpin." 

The  clock  in  the  steeple  of  St.  James-the-Less,  striking 
loudly  eleven,  awakes  Cyrilla  from  her  reverie.  All  is  still. 
Moonlight  Hoods  the  heavens  and  the  earth  ;  the  trees  stand  up 
black  and  nearly  lifeless  in  the  crystal  light.  It  is  cold,  too, 
but  her  shawl  protects  her.  As  the  last  sonorous  chime  sounds 
a  head  rises  over  the  wooden  wall,  directly  opposite  to  where 
she  sits.  Her  heart  gives  a  leap.  It  is  Carew.  The  head 
pauses  a  moment,  reconnoitres,  sees  that  all  is  safe,  and  then 
the  remainder  of  Mr.  Fred  Carew  follows.  He  poises  himself 
for  an  instant  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  unguarded,  in  this  peaceful 
town,  by  wicked  spikes  or  broken  bottles,  then  lightly  drops 


60  "UNDER    THE    TAMARACS." 

upon  the  turf  beneath.  Cyrilla  waves  her  handkerchief  to  him, 
and  he  approaches,  takes  his  stand  under  the  tree  beneath  hei 
window,  and  waits.  She  rises  to  her  feet  and  listens.  The  si- 
lence is  profound — all  are  in  bed,  no  doubt,  and  asleep.  'Toi- 
nette's  deep,  regular  breathing  is  like  clock-work.  A  moment- 
ary pause,  then  Cyrilla  prepares  to  descend.  Her  window  is 
about  fifteen  feet  from  the  gr6und — three  feet  beneath  it  a 
leaden  spout  runs  round  the  house.  She  lowers  herself  upon 
this  precarious  footing,  and  then,  without  much  difficulty, 
swings  into  the  strong  branches  of  a  huge  hemlock  near.  It  is 
not  the  first  time  Miss  Hendrick  has,  for  a  freak,  reached  the 
playground  in  this  torn-boy  fashion.  Here  she  rests  a  moment 
to  poise  securely. 

"  For  goodness  sake,  Beauty,  take  care,"  says  Mr.  Carew's 
anxious  voice  below. 

She  smiles.      "  All  right,  Freddy,"  she  answers. 

Branch  by  branch  she  descends,  with  wonderful  agility  for  a 
girl — the  lowest  limb  is  reached.  She  frees  her  dress,  and  leaps 
lightly  to  the  ground  and  to  the  side  of  Fred  Carew. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
"UNDER  THE  TAMARACS." 

|]Y  dear  little  Beauty,  what  a  trump  you  are  ! "  is  Mr. 
Carew's  enthusiastic  exclamation.  "It's  is  awfully  good 
of  you  to  come." 

He  tries  to  embrace  her,  but  Cyrilla  resolutely  frees 
herself,  and  draws  back. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Freddy ;  '  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmer's  kiss.' 
I  didn't  come  here  to  be  made  love  to ;  I  came  for  news  of 
papa.  There  is  a  bench  yonder,  under  the  tamaracs,  let  us  gc 
to  it.  I  believe,  with  the  Orientals,  that '  man  is  better  sitting 
than  standing.' " 

"  '  Lying  down  than  sitting,  dead  than  lying  down.'  Is  that 
your  belief,  Beauty  ?  " 

"No,  I  am  afraid  I  would  not  be  at  all  better  orT  dead,  par- 
ticularly while  I  act  as  I  am  doing  to  night.  By-the  by,  Freddy, 
I  wish  you  would  leave  off  calling  me  Beauty  ;  it  sounds  too  much 
as  though  I  were  a  litt'e  woolly  King  Charles,  with  a  curly  tail 
and  pink  eyes." 


"  UNDER    THE    TAMARACS."  6 1 

• 

"  All  right,  Beau — I  mean  Cyrilla."  They  have  found  the 
bench  by  this  time  and  sat  down.  "  It  is  rather  cruel  of  you, 
though,  to  refuse  me  one  fraternal  embrace,  seeing  we  have  been 
parted  three  years,  and  after  my  superhuman  exertions  to  thaw 
out  Miss — what  was  it? — oh,  yes,  Jones,  and  everything." 

"  You  looked  as  though  you  rather  enjoyed  your  exertions  to 
thaw  out  Miss  Jones,"  answered  Cyrilla,  coolly;  "and  we  will 
have  no  tender  scenes,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Carew,  either  now  or 
at  any  other  time.  You  see  before  you  the  future  Mrs.  McKel- 
pin." 

Mr.  Carew's  glass  goes  to  his  eye  instinctively  in  the  moon- 
light. 

"  The  Mrs. — how  much  ?"  he  asks,  helplessly. 

"  Mrs.  Donald  McKelpin,"  repeats  Cyrilla,  with  unction  and 
Mr.  McKelpin's  own  Glasgow  accent.  My  Aunt  Phillis  has 
not  only  undertaken  to  provide  me  with  an  education  in  the 
present,  a  fortune  in  the  future,  if  I  conduct  myself  properly, 
but  a  husband — a  gentleman  fifty-one  years  of  age  ;  a  tallow- 
chandler,  Freddy,  with  a  complexion  like  his  own  soap  and 
candles,  and  hair  and  whiskers  of  brightest  carrots.  It  is  well 
to  announce  this  fact  in  time  for  your  benefit.  I  am  an  en- 
gaged young  lady,  Mr.  Carew,  and  it  is  my  intention  to  behave 
as  such." 

"  Engaged  !  "  Freddy  repeats,  blankly.  "  Beauty,  you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me — you  can't  mean  to  tell  me  that " 

"  Well,  not  positively,  but  it  is  all  the  same.  Mr.  McKelpin 
and  Aunt  Dormer  understand  each  other  pretty  thoroughly,  I 
fancy.  He  is  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  Aunt  Phil 
three  times  that  amount,  and  you  know  the  proverb,  '  He  that 
hath  got  a  goose  shall  get  a  goose.'  I  leave  school  at  Christ 
mas,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  Donald  will  propose 
two  days  after." 

"  And  you  will  accept  him,  Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  Such  is  my  intention,  Freddy.  Beggars  mustn't  be  choosers 
I  don't  know  how  he  managed  to  ingratiate  himself  into  AunJ 
Phil's  good  graces;  he  isn't  by  any  means  a  fascinating  being 
but  the  fact  remains — he  has.  It  seems  to  me  sometimes  a  pity 
she  can't  marry  him  herself,  but  I  fancy  she  feels  bound  to  per- 
petual continence  by  her  hatred  of  your  father's  memory.  Aftel 
all,  Fred,  it  was  a  shame  for  him  to  treat  her  so,  poor  old  soul." 

"  A  most  heinous  shame  !  "  assents  Mr.  Carew,  with  consid 
arable  energy.  "  My  father  is  dead,  and  it  may  be  disrespect 
til,  but  I  will  say,  it  was  the  action  of  a  cad." 


6a  ««  UNDER    THE    TAMARACS." 

Cyrilla  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  '  Like  father,  like  son.'  Are  you  sure  you  would  not  do 
the  same  yourself?" 

"  Quite,  Beauty." 

"  Well,  don't  be  so  energetic.  You  are  never  likely  to  have 
a  chance  of  jilting  me.  What  I  tell  you  about  Mr.  McKelpin  is 
quite  true.  I  mean  to  marry  him  and  lead  a  rich  and  virtuous 
life  ;  that  is,  if  the  last  of  an  utterly  reprobate  and  castaway  race 
can  become  rich  and  respectable.  How  is  poor  papa,  Fred, 
and  when  did  you  see  him  last  ?  " 

"  Poor  papa  is  perfectly  well,  as  he  always  is,  Beau 1 

mean  Cyrilla.  It  doesn't  seem  in  the  nature  of  things,  some- 
how, for  jolly  Jack  Hendrick  to  get  knocked  up.  It  is  three 
months  since  I  saw  him,  and  then  he  was  hanging  out  at  Bou- 
logne, in  a  particularly  shady  quarter,  among  a  particularly 
shady  lot.  My  granduncle  Dunraith,  who,  in  an  uplifted  sort 
of  way,  now  and  then  recalls  the  fact  of  my  existence,  had  sent 
me  a  windfall  of  fifty  pounds.  Your  poor  papa,  Beauty,  won  it 
from  me  at  chicken-hazard,  with  his  usual  bland  and  paternal 
smile,  and  sent  me  back  to  Aldershot  a  plucked  chicken  mv- 
self." 

"  Ah  !  poor  papa  !  "  says  Miss  Hendrick,  heaving  a  sigh. 

"Ah!  poor  papa!"  echoes  Mr.  Carew,  heaving  another. 
"  Papa  is  one  of  those  people  whom  it  is  safer  to  love  at  a 
distance  than  close  at  hand.  He  wept  when  he  spoke  of  you, 
and  he  had  not  been  drinking  harder  than  usual,  either.  '  Take 
her  my  bless-ess-hessing,  Freddy,  my  boy,'  sobs  your  poor 
papa,  wiping  a  tear  out  of  his  left  optic  ;  '  it's  all  I  have  to  send 
me  child.'  And  then  he  took  another  pull  at  the  brandy-and-water. 
He's  a  humbug,  Beauty,  if  he  is  your  father  !  Don't  let  us  talk 
about  him — let  us  talk  about  ourselves.  When  are  you  going 
back  to  England  ?  " 

"  Never,  Freddy.  Go  back  to  England  !  What  on  earth 
should  I  go  back  for?  Your  father's  noble  relatives  recall  the 
fact  of  your  existence  every  once  and  a  while  :  my  mother's 
noble  relatives  totally  ignored  me  from  the  first.  By  the  way, 
Fred,  if  your  father  had  behaved  nicely,  and  married  Aunt  Phil, 
and  pleased  the  earl  and  countess,  you  would  have  been  heir 
to  all  the  Dormer  thousands  now,  and  my  first  cousin.  Think  of 
that!" 

Mr.  Carew  does  think  of  it,  and  the  notion  so  tickles  his  boy- 
ish fancy  that  he  goes  off  into  a  shout  of  laughter  that  makes 
the  echoes  ring. 


"UNDER   THE   TAMARACS."  63 

"By  Jove,  Beauty  !  Your  first  cousin,  and  Miss  Phillis Dor- 
mer's son  !  How  good,  by  Jove  !  But  I  am  afraid  the  Dor- 
mer thousands  would  have  been  beautifully  less  by  this  time  if 
my  father  had  had  their  handling.  The  only  genius  he  possessed 
was  a  genius  for  getting  rid  of  money,  and  that  has  honorably 
descended  to  his  only  son,  only  he  never  has  any  to  get  rid  of." 

"  Yes,"  Cyrilla  says,  gravely.  "  Mr.  McKelpin  will  make  a 
much  better  guardian  of  the  Dormer  dollars  than  you  or  your 
late  lamented  father.  For  pity's  sake,  Fred,  don't  laugh  so 
loudly.  Miss  Jones's  window  is  directly  over  mine,  directly  op- 
posite this,  and  Miss  Jones  invariably  sleeps  with  one  eye 
open." 

"  If  Miss  Jones's  beauteous  orbs  were  as  sharp  again  as  they 
are,"  answers  Mr.  Carew,  "she  could  hardly  see  us  here.  But 
all  this  is  beside  the  question.  Let  us  return  to  our  mutton — 
I  mean  to  our  soap  and-candle  man.  Beauty,  it  isn't  possible 
— it  cannot  be  possible — that  you  are  going  to  throw  me  over, 
and  marry  the  Scotchman  ?  " 

He  takes  both  her  hands  in  one  of  his  and  holds  her  fast. 
Cyrilla  resists  a  little,  but  Mr.  Carew  is  firm,  and  maintains  his 
clasp. 

"  Throw  you  over,  Fred  !  I  like  that  !  As  if  there  could  ever 
be  any  question  of  loving  or  marrying  between  you  and  me. 
A.S  if  I  could  ever  look  upon  you — a  small  boy — in  the  light  of. 
I  lover !  " 

"  Indeed  ! "  says  Mr.  Carew,  opening  his  handsome  blue 
eyes,  "  a  small  boy  like  me  ?  In  what  light,  Beauty,  have  you 
looked  upon  me,  then,  in  the  past,  in  the  days  we  spent  together 
in  Bloomsbury  ?  You  see  I  am  deplorably  ignorant  in  all  these 
nicer  distinctions." 

"  As  my  very  good  friend  and  staunch  comrade,  always. 
Those  days  in  London,  spent  together,  were  the  best  I  have 
ever  known  ;  the  best  I  ever  will  know." 

"  What,  Miss  Hendrick  !  Even  when  you  are  the  rich  and 
respectable  Mrs.  Sandy  McKelpin  ?  " 

"  Donald,  Freddy,  Donald — Mrs.  Donald  McKelpin.  Yes, 
even  then  ;  although,  as  far  as  money  will  go,  I  mean  to  enjoy 
my  life.  And  there  is  no  enjoyment,  to  speak  of,  in  this  lower 
world,  that  money  will  not  purchase.  For  you,  Fred,  I  told 
you  your  fortune  six  hours  ago.  You  will  stear  clear  of  the 
dark  lady,  Cyrilla  Hendrick,  and  you  will  marry  the  elderly 
blonde  person  with  a  fortune.  I  can't  point  her  out  at  present, 
but  I  have  no  doubt  she  exists,  and  can  be  found  if  you  set 


64  "•  UNDER    THE    TAMARACS." 

about  it  properly.  Seriously,  Fred,  your  father  made  a  fiasco 
of  his  life  by  marrying  for  love  and  all  that  nonsense,  and  died 
years  before  his  time  in  poverty  and  premature  old  age.  Take 
warning  by  him,  and  do  as  1  shall  do,  marry  for  money." 

Mr.  Carew  smiles  that  peculiarly  sweet  smile  of  his  that 
lights  up  so  pleasantly  his  blonde,  boyish  face. 

"  I  have  never  thought  much  about  marriage  in  the  abstract," 
he  says,  "  in  fact  I  never  thought  of  it  at  all,  Beauty,  until  you  put 
it  in  my  head  :  but  I  think  I  may  safely  say  this :  that  I  will  nev- 
er marry,  either  for  love  or  money,  unless  1  can  call  Cyrilla  Hen- 
drick  my  wife." 

There  is  real  feeling  in  his  voice,  real  love  in  the  blue  eyes 
that  shine  upon  her.  Cyrilla  Hendrick's  black  ones  flash  and 
soften  in  the  moonlight  as  they  meet  his. 

"  Oh,  Freddy  !    you  really  are  as  fond  of  me  as  this  !  " 

His  answer  is  not  in  words,  but  it  is  satisfactory.  There  is 
silence  for  a  little. 

"  And  you  won't  marry  the  Scotchman,  'Rilla?  "  he  says,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  Freddy  :  I  shall  marry  the  Scotchman,  but  all  the  same, 
dear  old  fellow,  you  shall  be  first  in  my  heart — such  heart  as  it 
is — to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"  Happy  Mr.  McKel'pin  !  Is  this  the  sort  of  morality  they 
teach  in  young  ladies'  seminaries,  then  ?  " 

"  I  never  required  to  be  taught,  Fred,"  Cyrilla  replies,  rather 
sadly  ;  "  all  worldly  and  selfish  knowledge  seems  to  come  to 
me  of  itself.  Besides,  it  is  done  every  day,  and  where  is  the 
great  harm  ?  I  shall  marry  Mr.  McKelpin,  and  make  him  as 
good  a  wife  as  he  wants  or  deserves,  and  you  and  I  shall  go  on, 
meeting  as  good  friends,  just  the  same  as  before." 

"  No  !  "  cries  Fred  Carew,  with  most  unwonted  energy,  "  that 
I  swear  we  shall  not !  The  day  you  become  Mrs.  McKelpin,  or 
Mrs.  Any-body-else,  that  day  you  and  I  part  forever.  None  of 
your  married  woman  platonic  friendships  for  me  !  The  houl 
you  are  made  any  man's  wife  that  hour  we  shall  shake  hands  and 
separate  for  Jill  time  !  " 

"  Freddy  !  "  she  says,  almost  with  a  gasp,  "  you  don't  mean 
that ! " 

"  I  mean  that,  Beauty.  Mind — I  don't  say  you  are  not  right 
— if  you  do  marry  the  Scotchman,  I  won't  blame  you.  I  am 
poor — I  have  my  pay,  just  enough  at  present  to  keep  me  in 
moss  rosebuds,  cigars,  and  Jouvin's  first  choice.  I  have  no  ex- 
pectations ;  a  poor  man  I  will  be  as  long  as  I  live.  No  one 
could  blame  you  for  throwing  me  over  for  the  tallow  -man 


"UNDER    THE    TAMARACS."  65 

Only  ivhen  you  marry  him  our  intimacy  shall  end.  My  father 
acted  like  a  scoundrel  to  your  aunt.  I  won't  act  like  a  scoun- 
drel to  you." 

"  It  would  be  the  act  of  a  scoundrel  to  remain  my  friend — to 
go  on  seeing  me  after  I  am  married  ? "  Cyrilla  demands,  hei 
cheeks  flushing,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  It  would,  Beauty.  Your  friend  I  could  never  be — that 
you  know.  The  motto  of  my  Uncle  Dunraith  is,  '  All  or  noth- 
ing.' In  this  matter  it  is  my  motto  also — all  or  nothing  !  " 

Again  there  is  silence.  On  the  young  man's  face  a  resolute 
expression,  altogether  new  in  Cyrilla's  experience  of  him,  has 
settled.  On  hers  a  deep,  unusual  flush  burns. 

"  You  mean  this,  Mr.  Carew  ?  " 

"  I  most  decidedly  mean  this,  Miss  Hendrick.  I  will  be  the 
happiest  fellow  in  the  universe  if  you  will  marry  me  to-morrow. 
If  you  will  not,  1  have  nothing  to  say — you  know  best  what  is 
best  for  you,  I  am  very  sure.  But  stand  by  and  see  you 
married  to  another  man — go  on  meeting  you  after,  knowing  that 
you  were  lost  to  me  forever — no,  by  Jove  ! "  cries  Mr.  Carew, 
"that  I  won't!  " 

"As  you  please,"  Cyrilla  answers,  and  she  rises  resolutely 
as  she  does  answer.  "  You  will  act,  of  course,  in  all  things, 
Mr.  Carew,  as  your  superior  wisdom  may  suggest.  I  can  only 
regret,  since  the  proposal  is  so  distasteful  to  you,  that  I  made  it 
at  all.  Forget  it — and  me — and  my  folly  in  meeting  you  here, 
and  good-night." 

She  turns  to  go,  but  before  she  has  moved  half  a  dozen  steps 
he  is  by  her  side,  detaining  her  once  more. 

"  Angry,  Beauty  ?  and  with  me  ?  What  nonsense  !  You 
couldn't  be,  you  know,  if  you  tried.  Are  you  really  going  to 
leave  me,  'Rilla?"  He  is  holding  both  her  hands  once  more. 
"  Not  at  least  until  you  tell  me  when  and  where  we  are  to  meet 
again." 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  meetings,  Mr.  Carew.  The  friend- 
ship you  disclaim  so  disdainfully  in  the  future  shall  end  at  once. 
Good-night." 

"  And  once  more — nonsense,  Beauty  !  I  decline  to  meet 
Mis.  McKelpin,  but  Cyrilla  Hendrick  I  shall  go  on  meeting, 
and  loving,  while  she  lives.  If  I  may  not  come  here  again,  will 
you  write  to  me,  at  least  ?" 

"Have  J  not  already  told  you  no  letter  can  come  into 
the  school  that  is  not  opened  by  Mademoiselle  Stephanie? 
Still " 


66  "ALL   IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR." 

"  Yes,  Beauty— still  ?  " 

"  Still  I  think  I  can  arrange  it."  Cyrilla  has  relented  by  this 
time.  "  Helen  Herne,  one  of  the  day-scholars,  will  smuggle  my 
letters  out,  and  yours  in.  She  and  Sydney  Owenson  are  the 
only  two  in  the  school  I  would  trust.  Are  you  stationed  here 
in  Petit  St.  Jacques  for  the  winter  ?  " 

"  No,  only  temporarily  ;  our  headquarters  are  Montreal.  By- 
the-by,  your  home,  Miss  Dormer's  rather,  is  in  Montreal. 
When  you  leave  school  we  must  manage  to  meet  often.  Mean- 
time, "Rilla," — he  draws  her  closer  to  him  in  the  moonlight — 
'promise  me  this — don't  take  that  oath  not.  to  marry  me." 

The  handsome  face  is  very  close,  very  pleading.  She  loves 
him,  and  the  last  shadow  of  anger  vanishes  from  hers  like  a 
cloud,  and  a  smile,  Cyrilla' s  own,  too,  rare  and  most  radiant 
smile,  lights  it  up. 

"  I  think  I  may  safely  promise  that  much,  Fred — yes." 

"  And  you  won't  marry  McKelpin — confound  him  ! — without 
letting  me  know  ?  " 

She  laughs,  and  promises  this  too.  They  are  out  in  the  open 
air  by  this  time — in  broad,  chill,  dazzlingly  white,  midnight 
moonlight.  St.  James-the-Less  chimes  out  sonorously,  on  the 
still  frosty  air,  twelve. 

"  Good  Heaven,  Fred,  midnight !  This  is  awful  !  Let  me  go. 
No,  not  another  second  !  Good-night,  good-night !  " 

She  tears  herself  from  him,  and  swings  nimbly  into  her  friend, 
the  hemlock-tree.  He  stands  and  watches  her  clambering  up, 
hand  over  hand,  sees  her  reach  the  lead  water-pipe  and  mount 
upon  the  sill  of  the  window.  She  waves  her  hand  to  him,  and 
he  turns  to  depart.  With  that  parting  smile  still  on  her  face 
she  vaults  into  the  room,  and  finds  herself  face  to  face  with — 
Mademoiselle  Stephanie  and  Miss  Jones  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
"ALL  is  LOST  BUT  HONOR." 

RED  CAREW'S  fatal  laugh  had  done  it  all— reached 
Miss  Jones's  slumbering  ear,  and  aroused  her  from  her 
vestal  dreams.  Cyrilla  had  said  Miss  Jones  slept 
with  one  eye  open  ;  she  might  have  added,  truthfully, 

with  one  ear  also.     And,  as  it  chanced,  on  this  particular  night 

her  slumbers  were  lighter  even  than  usual. 


"ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR."  67 

For  nearly  an  hour  after  quitting  the  pupils'  rooms  with  their 
lamps,  she  had  sat  at  the  window — a  very  unusual  thing  with 
Miss  Jones — and  gazed  sentimentally  out  at  the  moonlight. 
She  was  nine  and  twenty,  as  has  been  said,  and  in  all  these 
nine  and  twenty  years  no  man  had  ever  paid  her  as  much  atten- 
tion as  Mr.  Carew  had  paid  her  to-night.  A  delicious  trance 
wrapped  Miss  Jones.  What  if  a  brilliant  match  were  yet  in 
store  for  her ! — on  this  side  of  forty  all  things  seem  possible. 
Mr.  Carevv  had  committed  himself  in  no  way,  certainly  ;  but  he 
had  given  her  looks,  and  there  had  been  tones  and  words  that 
made  her  unappropriated  heart  throb  with  rapture.  What  a 
triumph  it  had  been  over  her  refractory,  her  supercilious  pupil, 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  !  He  had  hinted  at  meeting  her  again — in- 
quired, with  seeming  carelessness,  her  hours  for  visiting  the 
town,  the  church  she  attended  on  Sunday,  and  at  parting  he 
had  squeezed,  absolutely  squeezed,  her  hand.  No  doubt  he 
would  be  in  waiting  on  Sunday  to  attend  her  home  after  wor- 
ship. How  very  handsome  and  distingue  he  was — heir  to  a 
title,  it  might  be — many  of  these  officers  were.  A  vision  of  rosy 
brightness — orange  blossoms,  Honiton  lace,  half-a-dozen  of  the 
girls  for  bridesmaids — rose  before  her  enraptured  vision,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  a  loud  sneeze  warned  Miss  Jones  that  she  was 
sitting  by  the  open  window  in  a  draught,  and  that  the  probable 
result  of  her  roseate  visions  would  be  a  bad  cold  in  the  head  to- 
morrow. Upon  this  Miss  Jones  went  to  bed. 

For  hygienic  reasons,  she  invariably  left  her  window  open, 
winter  and  summer.  She  had  dropped  into  a  slight  beauty 
sleep,  when  suddenly  there  came  to  her  ear  the  decided  sound 
of  a  hearty  laugh.  In  one  second  of  time  Miss  Jones  was  sit- 
ting bolt  upright  in  bed,  broad  awake,  and  listening  intently. 
Yes,  there  it  was  again — a  laugh,  a  marts  laugh,  and  in  the  gar- 
den. Burglars  ! — that  was  her  first  thought.  But  no  ;  burglars 
do  not,  as  a  rule,  give  way  to  fits  of  merriment  over  their  work. 
She  slipped  from  her  bed,  went  to  the  window,  and  strained 
sight  and  hearing  to  discover  the  cause.  There  was  nothing  to 
see  but  the  broad  sheets  of  moonlight  pouring  down  upon  every- 
thing ;  but,  yes,  distinctly  Miss  Jones  could  hear,  in  that  pro- 
found frosty  silence,  the  subdued  murmur  of  voices  under  the 
trees. 

Was  it  inspiration — the  inspiration  of  hatred,  the  inspiration 
of  hope — that  made  her  mind  leap  to  Cyrilla  Hendrick  ? 
Without  waiting  to  reason  out  the  impulse  that  prompted  her, 
she  ran  from  her  room,  down  the  stairs '  and  noiselessly  into 


68  "ALL   IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR." 

that  of  her  foe.  Yes,  she  was  right !  There  stood  the  bed  un- 
occupied, the  window  wide  open,  the  girl  gone.  On  her  bed, 
'Toinette  lay  fast  asleep  ;  she,  then,  was  not  Cyrilla's  com. 
panion  !  Who  could  be  ?  Even  more  distinctly  than  up-stairs 
Miss  Jones  could  hear  the  murmured  talk  here — one  voice,  she 
could  have  sworn,  the  voice  of  a  man. 

In  an  instant  her  resolution  was  taken ;  in  another  she  had 
acted  upon  it,  and  was  rapping  at  the  sleeping-room  of  Made- 
moiselle Stephanie.  At  last  her  time  had  come.  The  prize 
pupil  of  the  school,  her  arch-enemy,  was  in  her  power.  Made- 
moiselle Chateauroy,  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  opened  the 
door,  and  stared  in  bewilderment  at  her  second  English  ^eacher. 
People  talking  and  laughing  in  the  grounds  !  Miss  Hendrick 
not  in  her  room  !  Mon  Dieu  !  what  did  Miss  Jones  mean? 

"There  is  not  a  second  to  lose,  mademoiselle,"  Miss  Jones 
feverishly  cried,  "  if  we  wish  to  see  who  the  man  is  !  It  wants 
but  five  minutes  of  twelve — she  surely  will  not  stay  much 
longer.  Come  !  come  at  once  !  " 

She  took  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  hand,  and  fairly  forced 
her  along  the  chill  passage  to  Cyrilla's  room.  They  were  not 
a  second  too  soon.  As  they  took  their  places  at  the  window, 
the  two  culprits  stepped  out  from  under  the  tamaracs  into  the 
full  light  of  the  moon.  The  gentleman's  arm  affectionately  en- 
circled his  companion's  waist. 

'•'•Mon  Dieu/"  mademoiselle  gasped. 

Miss  Jones  gave  one  faint  gasp  also,  for  in  the  brilliant  light 
of  the  moon  she  recognized  at  first  glance  her  false,  her  recreant 
admirer,  Mr.  Carew.  It  all  flashed  upon  her — it  had  all  been  a 
blind  to  lead  her  off  the  scent,  his  attentions  to  herself.  He 
and  Cyrilla  Hendrick  had  planned  this  meeting.  No  doubt 
they  had  laughed  together  over  her  gullibility  there  under  the 
trees.  She  set  her  teeth  with  a  snap  of  rage  and  fury  at  the 
thought. 

"  You  have  had  your  laugh,  my  lady,  with  your  lover,"  she 
thought,  with  a  vicious  glare  ;  "  it  is  my  turn  now,  and  those 
laugh  best  who  laugh  last." 

Then  came  that  hurried  parting  embrace,  extorting  another 
horrified  "  Mon  Dieu"  from  mademoiselle.  Then  Cyrilla  was 
mounting  the  tree,  then  the  lead  pipe,  then,  kissing  her  hand  to 
her  lover,  leaped  into  the  room  and  stood  before  them  ! 

Imagine  that  tableau  !  Dead  silence  for  the  space  of  one 
minute,  during  which  judge,  accuser,  and  criminal  stand  face  to 


"ALL   IS  LOST  BUT  HCVOR."  69 

face.  One  faint  cry  of  sheer  surprise  Cyrilla  had  given,  then 
as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  intolerably  exultant  face  of  Miss  Jones, 
her  haughty  head  went  up,  her  daring,  resolute  spirit  asserted 
itself,  and  she  faced  them  boldly.  There  was  fearless  blood 
in  the  girl's  veins — bad  blood,  beyond  all  doubt,  but  pluck  in- 
vincible. For  her  this  discovery  meant  ruin — utter,  irretrieva- 
ble ruin — but  since  it  had  come  there  was  nothing  for  it,  with 
Mary  Jane  Jones  looking  on  particularly,  but  to  face  it  without 
flinching. 

"  Come  with  me,  Miss  Hendrick,"  Mademoiselle  Stephanie 
coldly  began.  "  You  also,  Miss  Jones." 

She  led  the  way  back  to  her  own  room,  where  a  lamp  burned 
and  a  dull  red  glimmer  of  fire  yet  glowed.  Spectral  and  ghostly 
the  two  teachers  looked  in  their  long  night-robes,  and  a  faint 
smile  flitted  over  Cyrilla's  face  as  she  followed.  Mademoiselle 
closed  the  door  carefully,  and  then  confronted  the  culprit. 

"  Now  for  it !  "  Cyrilla  thought.  "  Good  Heaven  !  what  an 
unlucky  wretch  I  am  !  Nothing  can  save  me  now." 

"  Well,  Miss  Hendrick,"  Mademoiselle  Chateauroy  began,  in 
that  cold,  level  voice  of  intense  displeasure,  "what  have  you  to 
say  ?  1  presume  you  have  some  explanation  to  give  of  to-night's 
most  extraordinary  conduct." 

"  A  very  simple  explanation,  mademoiselle,"  Cyrilla  an 
swered.  "  I  thank  you  for  letting  me  make  it.  Nothing  can 
wholly  excuse  a  pupil  keeping  an  assignation  with  a  gentleman 
in  the  school-grounds  by  night — of  that  I  am  aware — but  at 
least  my  motive  may  partly.  I  have  heard  no  news  of  my  father 
for  over  a  year  ;  I  went  to  hear  news  of  him  to-night.  This 
evening,  at  Mrs.  Delamere's,  I  met  a  gentleman  whom  I  have 
known  from  childhood — who  has  been  as  a  brother  to  me  since 
my  earliest  recollection — who  was  a  daily  visitor  at  my  father's 
house  in  London.  I  was  naturally  anxious  for  news,  of  papa 
in  particular,  and  would  have  received  it  then  and  there  but  for 
Miss  Jones's  interference.  She  would  not  allow  us  to  exchange 
a  word — she  was  resolute  to  make  me  leave  him,  and  I  obeyed. 
What  followed  Miss  Jones  knows.  He  and  I  did  not  exchange 
another  word,  but  before  he  left  me  he  told  me  he  had  an  im- 
portant, a  most  important  message  to  deliver  from  my  father, 
and  was  determined  to  deliver  it  to-night.  I  refused  to  meet 
him  at  first,  but  when  I  remembered  it  was  my  only  chance  of 
hearing  from  poor  papa,  that  no  letters  were  allowed  to  come 
to  me,  1  consented.  He  came  over  the  wall,  and  1  descended, 


70  "ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR." 

remained  with  him  a.  few  minutes,  and  returned.  That  is  tLe 
whole  story." 

She  could  see  the  sneering  scorn  and  unbelief  on  Miss  Jones's 
face,  the  cold,  intense  anger  deepening  upon  Mademoiselle 
Stephanie's.  Neither  of  them  believed  a  word  she  had  said. 

"  Does  'Toinette  know  ?  "   Mademoiselle  Chateauroy  asked. 

"  No,  mademoiselle.  'Toinette  was  asleep  long  before  I  went." 

"  Of  that  at  least  I  am  glad.  It  is  sufficiently  bad  to  have  a 
pupil  in  my  school  capable  of  so  shameful  and  evil  an  act,  with- 
out knowing  that  she  has  corrupted  the  minds  of  other  and 
innocent  girls.  For  three  and  twenty  years,  Miss  Hendrick,  1 
have  been  preceptress  of  this  school,  and  in  all  that  time  no 
breath  of  scandal  has  touched  it.  Wild  pupils,  refractory  pupils, 
disobedient  pupils,  1  have  had  many — a  pupil  capable  of  steal- 
ing from  her  chambers  at  midnight  to  meet  a  young  man  in  the 
grounds  I  have  never  had  before.  I  pray  the  bon  Dieu  I  never 
may  have  again." 

A  color,  like  a  tongue  of  flame,  leaped  for  a  moment  into 
each  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick's  dark  cheeks.  Something  m  made- 
moiselle's simple,  coldly-spoken  words  made  her  feel  for  the 
first  time  how  shameful,  how  unmaidenly  her  escapade  had 
been.  Up  to  the  present  she  had  regarded  it  as  rather  a  good 
joke — a  thing  to  tell  and  laugh  at.  A  sense  of  stinging  shame 
filled  her  now — a  sense  of  rage  with  it,  at  these  women  who 
made  her  feel  it.  All  that  was  worst  in  the  girl  arose — her 
eyes  flashed,  her  handsome  lips  set  themselves  in  sullen  wrath. 

"  I  thank  Heaven,  and  I  thank  my  very  good  friend,  Miss 
Jones,"  pursued  mademoiselle,  "  that  this  wicked  thing  has  been 
brought  to  light  so  soon.  So  soon  !  Mon  Dieu,  who  is  to  tell 
me  it  has  not  been  done  again  and  again  ?  " 

Once  more  the  black  eyes  flashed,  but  with  her  arms  folded 
Cyrilla  stood  sullenly  silent  now.  The  worst  had  come  ;  the 
very  worst  that  could  ever  happen.  Miss  Dormer  would  hear 
all,  she  would  be  expelled  the  school,  expelled  Miss  Dormer's 
house — her  last  chance  of  being  Miss  Dormer's  heiress  was  at 
an  end.  Ruin  had  come,  absolute  ruin,  and  nothing  she  could 
do  or  say  would  avert  it  now.  The  look  that  came  over  the 
face  of  the  girl  of  nineteen  showed  for  the  first  time  the  strong 
capabilities  of  evil  within  her. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  this  young  man  you  met,  Miss  Hen- 
drick  ?  "  mademoiselle  went  on. 

Cyrilla  lifted  her  darkly  angry  eyes. 

"I  have  given   you   an  explanation  of  my  conduct,  made* 


"ALL  IS  LOST  BUT  HONOR."  Jl 

moiselle,  and  you  refuse  to  believe  it.  I  decline  to  answer  any 
further  questions." 

"  His  name  was  Mr.  Carew,"  said  Miss  Jones,  opening  her 

lips  for  the  time.  "  Lieutenant  Frederic  Carew  of  the  

Fusiliers." 

She  gave  the  information  with  unction,  her  exultant  eyes 
upon  Cyrilla's  face.  Once  more  the  dark  eyes  lifted  and  looked 
at  her — a  look  not  good  to  see. 

"This  is  your  hour,  Miss  Jones,"  that  darkly  ominous 
glance  said.  "  Mine  shall  come." 

Mademoiselle  Stephanie  made  a  careful  note  of  the  name. 

"  That  will  do,  Miss  Jones.  I  will  not  detain  you  from  your 
needful  rest  longer.  Of  course  it  is  unnecessary  to  caution  you 
to  maintain  strictest  silence  concerning  this  disgraceful  discov- 
ery. Not  for  worlds  must  a  whisper  of  the  truth  get  abroad  or 
reach  the  other  young  ladies.  Miss  Hendrick  will  remain  in 
this  room  a  close  prisoner  until  she  quits  the  pensionnat  forever. 
She  has  been,  not  the  pupil  I  have  best  loved,  but  the  pupil  I 
have  most  been  proud  of.  It  gives  me  a  pang,  I  cannot  de- 
scribe how  great,  to  lose  her,  and  thus.  I  am  sorry  for  my  own 
sake,  and  sorrier  for  hers.  Miss  Dormer  told  me  to  watch  her 
closely,  for  she  was  not  as  other  girls,  and  for  three  years  I 
have.  For  three  years  she  has  offended  in  no  way,  and  now, 
to  end  like  this  !  " 

"Then  let  my  three  years'  good  conduct  plead  for  me, 
mademoiselle,"  Cyrilla  said,  boldly.  "  It  is  my  first  offence — it 
shall  be  my  last.  Say  nothing  to  any  one  ;  let  me  remain  until 
Christmas — not  three  months  now — and  quit  the  school,  as  I 
have  lived  in  it,  with  honor." 

But  mademoiselle  shook  her  head,  sorrowfully,  yetinexorably. 

"  Impossible,  Miss  Hendrick.  You  have  been  guilty  of  an 
offence  for  which  expulsion  can  be  the  only  punishment.  How 
could  I  answer  to  Heaven  and  the  mothers  of  my  pupils  for  the 
guilt  of  allowing  any  one  capable  of  such  a  crime  to  mingle 
with  them  and  deprave  them  ?" 

"  '  Guilt !  deprave  ! '  You  use  strong  language,  mademoiselle. 
The  gentleman  I  met  has  been  all  his  life  as  my  brother — I 
met  him  to  hear  news  of  my  father,  which  I  can  hear  in  no 
other  way.  And  that  is  a  crime  !  " 

"  A  crime  against  obedience,  against  all  delicacy  and  maid- 
enly modesty.  Hut  it  has  been  done,  and  no  talking  will  undo 
it.  Go  to  your  room,  Miss  Jones,  and  be  silent.  You,  Miss 
Hendrick,  shall  remain  with  me.  To-morrow  I  will  write  to 


7*  "A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 

your  aint,  telling  her  all.  Until  her  answer  arrives  you  will 
remain  under  lock  and  key  here." 

"  And  the  sentence  of  the  court  is  that  you  be  taken  hence 
to  the  place  of  execution,  and  that  there  you  be  hanged  by  the 
neck  until  you  are  dead." 

The  grim  words  flashed  through  Cyrilla's  mind.  She  had 
read  them  often,  and  wondered  how  the  miserable,  co'vering 
criminal  in  the  dock  must  feel.  She  could  imagine  now. 
She  did  not  cower — outwardly  she  listened  unmoved,  with  a 
hardihood  that  was  to  mademoiselle  proof  of  deepest  guilt ; 
but  inwardly — "  all  within  was  black  as  night." 

Miss  Jones,  that  covert  smile  still  on  her  face,  left  the  room. 
Mademoiselle  Stephanie  pulled  out  that  transparent  deception, 
a  sofa-bed,  amply  furnished  with  pillows  and  quilts.  Many 
pupils  had  slept  out  their  week  of  solitary  confinement  on  this 
prison  bed,  but  never  so  deeply  dyed  a  criminal  before. 

"  You  will  undress  and  sleep  here,  Miss  Hendrick,"  made- 
moiselle said;  "but  first  kneel  down  and  ask  pardon  of  le  ban 
Dleu  for  the  sin  you  have  done." 

"  I  have  committed  no  sin — I  will  thank  you  not  to  say  so, 
mademoiselle,"  Cyrilla  flashed  forth  at  last.  "  Make  moun- 
tains out  of  mole-hills  if  you  like,  but  don't  expect  me  to  call 
them  mountains  too.  Write  to  my  aunt,  expel  me  when  you 
please,  but  meantime  don't  insult  me." 

And  then  Cyrilla,  flinging  her  clothes  in  a  heap  on  the  near- 
est chair,  got  into  the  sofa-bed  and  turned  her  face  sullenly  to 
the  wall. 

"There  goes  my  last  hope,"  she  thought,  "thanks  to  my 
horrible  temper.  I  might  have  softened  her  to  morrow — now 
there  isn't  a  chance.  Like  Francis  the  First,  at  Pavia,  '  all  is 
lost  but  honor  ! '  " 


CHAPTER   IX. 

"A   TEMPEST    IN    A   TEAPOT." 

[[HE  dim  firelight  flickered  and  fell,   one    by  one   the 
cinders  dropped  softly  through  the  bars,  one  by  one 
the  slow    moments    ticked  off  on    the   old  fashioend 
chimney-piece  clock.       Outside,    the  autumnal  wind 
sighed  around  t.v  •>  gables,  and  r loaned  and  whistled  through  the 


«M    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT."  73 

pines  and  tamaracs.  Broad  bars  of  luminous  moonlight  stole 
in  thro'.igh  the  closed  jalousies,  and  lay  broad  and  bright  on 
the  faded  carpet.  Wiry  and  long  drawn  out,  Mademoiselle 
Stephanie's  small,  treble  snore  told  that  a  good  conscience  and 
a  light  supper  are  soporific  in  their  tendency,  and  that  she,  at 
least,  was  "o'er  all  the  ills  of  life  victorious."  And  Cyrilla 
Hendrick  lay  broad  awake,  seeing  and  hearing  it  all,  and  think- 
ing of  the  sudden  crash  that  had  toppled  down  her  whole  fairy 
fortune. 

Impossible  to  sleep.  She  got  up  softly,  wrapped  a  shawl 
around  her,  went  to  the  window,  opened  one  of  the  shutters, 
and  sat  moodily  down.  In  sheets  of  yellow  light,  the  moon- 
steeped  fields  and  forest,  the  Rue  St.  Dominique  wound  along 
like  a  belt  of  silver  ribbon,  no  living  thing  to  be  seen,  no  earthly 
sound  to  be  heard  beside  the  desolate  soughing  of  the  October 
wind.  And,  sitting  there,  Cyrilla  looked  her  prospects  straight 
in  the  face. 

To  morrow  morning  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  would  write  a 
detailed  account  of  her  wrong  doing  to  Miss  Dormer,  giving  Mr. 
Carew's  name,  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  could  picture  the  rage, 
the  amaze,  the  fury  of  the  passionate,  tyrannical  old  woman,  as 
she  glared  over  the  letter.  Other,  and  even  more  grievous  faults 
Miss  Dormer  might  condone — this,  never.  She  would  be  sent 
for  in  hot  haste — she  would  be  expelled  the  school — her  lip 
curled  scornfully  at  the  thought,  for  that  her  bold,  resolute 
spirit  cared  nothing — and  she  would  return  in  dire  disgrace  to 
Dormer  Lodge.  And  then  the  scene  that  would  ensue  !  Miss 
Dormer  glaring  upon  her  with  eyes  of  fire,  and  tongue  like  a 
two-edged  sword.  "  My  niece  Cyrilla  comes  of  a  bad  stock  !  " 
over  and  over  again  the  old  maid  had  hissed  out  her  prediction  ; 
"  and  mark  my  words,  my  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to  no  good 
end!" 

The  end  had  come  sooner  than  even  Miss  Dormer  had  ex- 
pected. 

Well,  the  first  fury,  the  first  tongue-lashing  over,  Aunt  Dor- 
mer would  send  her  back,  penniless  as  she  came,  to  her  father. 
No  splendid  fortune,  hoarded  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  for  her  ; 
no  "rich  and  respectable"  Mr.  McKelpin  to  take  her  to  wife. 
Back  again  to  the  nomadic  tribes  of  Bohemia,  to  the  tents  and  :m- 
poverished  dwellers  in  the  realm  of  vagabondia  !  As  vividly  as 
a  painting  it  all  arose  before  her — her  father's  dirty,  dreary,  slip 
shod  lodgings  in  some  dismal  back  street  of  Boulogne-sur-Mer. 
She  could  see  him  in  tattered  dressing-gown,  haggard  and  un- 
4 


74  "A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT? 

shorn,  sitting  up  the  night  long  with  kindred  spirits  over  the 
greasy  pack  of  cards,  fleecing  some,  and  being  fleeced  by  others. 
The  rickety  furniture,  the  three  stuffy  little  rooms,  the  air  per- 
fumed with  tobacco  and  brandy  and  water,  herself  draggled 
and  unkempt,  insulted  by  insolent  love-making,  spoken  of  with 
coarse  and  jeering  sneers.  Oh  !  she  knew  it  all  so  well — and 
her  hands  clenched,  and  a  suffocating  feeling  of  pain  and  shame 
lose  in  her  throat  and  nearly  choked  her. 

"  No,"  she  thought,  passionately,  "  death  sooner  than  that  ! 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  have  been  this  night !  to  risk  so  much  to 
gain  so  little." 

A  feeling  of  hot  swift  wrath  arose  with  in  her  against  Fred 
Carew. 

"  My  father  ruined  the  life  of  your  aunt.  I  will  never  ruin 
yours."  That,  or  something  like  it,  he  had  said  to  her,  and  now 
— all  unconsciously  it  is  true — the  ruin  of  all  her  prospects  had 
come,  and  through  him. 

"  I  will  never  go  back  to  my  father,"  she  thought  again,  this 
time  with  sullen  resolution.  "  No  fate  that  can  befall  me  here 
will  be  worse  than  the  fate  that  awaits  me  with  him.  America 
is  wide  ;  it  will  go  hard  with  me  if  I  cannot  carve  out  a  destiny 
for  myself." 

What  should  she  do  ?  No  one  knew  better  than  Cyrilla  Hen- 
drick  the  futility  of  crying  over  spilt  milk.  What  was  done,  was 
done — no  repentance  could  undo  it.  No  use  weeping  one's 
eyes  red  over  the  inevitable  past ;  much  better  and  wiser  to  turn 
one's  thoughts  to  the  future.  She  would  be  expelled  the  school; 
she  would  be  turned  out  of  doors  by  her  aunt,  all  for  a  school- 
girl escapade,  indecorous,  perhaps,  but  no  heinous  crime,  surely. 
Was  she  to  yield  to  Fate,  and  meekly  submit  to  the  disgrace 
they  would  put  upon  her  ?  Not  she  !  Her  chin  arose  an  inch 
at  the  thought,  sitting  there  alone — her  handsome,  resolute  lips 
set  themselves  in  a  tight,  determined  line.  She  would  take  her 
life  in  her  own  keeping,  away  from  them  all.  She  would  never 
return  to  her  expatriated  father  and  his  disreputable  associates. 
"  The  world  was  all  before  her  where  to  choose," — what  should 
that  choice  be  ?  Two  alternatives  lay  before  her.  She  might 
go  to  Fred  Carew,  tell  him  all,  and  at  the  very  earliest  possible 
moment  after  the  revelation  she  knew  he  would  make  her  his 
wife.  His  wife — and  she  must  march  with  the  regiment  ;  both 
must  live  on  seven-and-sixpence  a  day,  just  enough,  as  Fred 
now  said,  to  keep  him  in  bouquets  and  kid  gloves.  They  must 
live  in  dingy  lodgings,  and  appeal  humbly  in  all  extremity  to  th« 


"A    TEMPEST  IN  A  TEAPOT."  75 


Right  Hon.  the  Earl  of  Dunraith  for  help.  Life  ^vouM  drag 
on  an  excessively  shabby  and  out-at-elbows  story  indeed  ;  and 
Love,  in  the  natural  order  of  things,  would  fly  out  the  door  as 
Poverty  stalked  in  at  the  window.  A  shudder  ran  through  her. 
No,  no  !  Freddy  had  acted  badly  in  getting  her  into  this  scrape, 
but  she  would  not  wreak  life-long  vengeance  upon  him  by  mak- 
ing him  marry  her  and  bringing  him  to  this  deplorable  pass. 

"Not  that  he  would  think  it  deplorable,  poor  little  dear  !" 
Cyrilla  thought,  compassionately.  "  A  better  fellow  than  little 
Fred  doesn't  breathe,  and  he  would  share  his  last  crust  with 
me,  and  let  me  henpeck  him  all  his  life,  and  look  at  me  with 
tears  of  entreaty  in  his  blue  eyes,  and  be  utterly  and  speech- 
lessly wretched.  But  I  would  be  a  brute  to  do  it.  No,  I  must 
run  away  from  Fred,  and  see  him  no  more.  If  I  did,  he  would 
force  me  into  marrying  him,  and  that  way  madness  lies  !  " 

It  will  be  seen  that  Miss  Hendrick  was  a  young  lady  of  wis- 
dom beyond  her  years,  and  capable  of  projecting  herself  into 
the  future.  With  a  sigh,  she  dismissed  the  thought  of  running 
away  with  Freddy.  It  would  be  very  nice  —  very  nice,  indeed, 
to  be  Fred  Carew's  wife  ;  to  be  able  to  pet  him  and  tyrannize 
over  him  alternately  all  one's  life  —  oh  !  what  fate  so  desirable? 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  Then  what  remained  ? 

In  one  moment  she  had  answered  that  question  —  solved  the 
enigma.  She  would  go  on  the  stage.  Next  to  being  a  grande 
dame,  a  wealthy  leader  of  fashion,  it  "had  always  been  her  am- 
bition to  be  an  actress.  And  Cyrilla  thought  of  the  life  not  as 
one  without  knowledge.  Theatrical  people  had  formed  the 
staple  of  her  acquaintances  —  gentlemen  with  close-cropped 
heads  and  purple  chins,  deep,  bass  voices  and  glaring  eyes  —  • 
ladies,  slangy  as  to  conversation,  loud  as  to  dress,  audacious 
as  to  manners,  and  painted  as  to  faces.  All  the  drudgery,  atl 
the  heart-burnings,  all  the  petty  squabbles  and  jealousies,  all  the 
dangers  of  the  life  she  saw  clearly.  But  her  bold  spirit  quailed 
not.  She  had  performed  repeatedly  in  private  theatricals,  she 
had  even  the  year  before  coming  to  Canada  "  gone  on  "  in  one 
of  the  Strand  houses  in  the  very  droll  extravaganza  of  "  Alad- 
din ;  or,  The  Wonderful  Scamp."  No  wonder  her  performance 
in  these  mild  drawn  pensionnat  dialogues  was  strong  meat  to 
milk  and  water.  Yes,  Cyrilla  decided  she  would  go  on  the 
stage;.  She  would  leave  her  aunt's  house  for  New  York,  and 
in  that  great  city  it  would  go  hard  with  her  if  with  her  handsome 
face,  her  tine  figure,  her  clever  brain,  she  could  not  carve  out  a 
bright  destiny  for  herself  Vain,  she  was  not  ;  but  she  knew  to 


76  "A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 

the  uttermost  iota  the  market  value  of  her  black  eyes,  her  long 
waving  black  hair,  her  dark,  high-bred  face,  her  tall,  supple 
form,  her  thorough  knowledge  of  French  and  German,  her  rich 
conlralto  voice.  Each  one  was  a  stepping-stone  to  future  fame 
and  fortune.  And,  as  she  thought  it,  worn  out  by  watching 
and  her  unusual  vigil,  her  head  fell  forward  on  the  window-sill, 
and  she  dropped  asleep. 

It  was  six  by  the  little  chimney  clock  when  the  harsh,  disso- 
nant ringing  of  a  bell  awoke  simultaneously  all  the  inmates  of 
the  pensionnat.  It  aroused  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  among 
the  rest.  The  morning  had  broken  in  true  November  dreari- 
ness, in  dashing  rain  and  whistling  wind,  in  bleakness  and  chill. 

With  a  yawn  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  sat  up  in  bed,  shiver- 
ing and  blue,  and  the  first  object  upon  which  her  sleepy  eyes  rest- 
ed was  the  drooping  form  of  her  prisoner  by  the  window,  in  sleep 
so  deep  that  even  the  clanging  of  the  bell  had  failed  to  arouse 
her.  She  had  evidently  sat  there  all  night,  cried  herself  to  sleep 
probably,  and  a  pang  of  pity  touched  mademoiselle's  kindly  old 
French  heart.  But  it  would  not  do  to  show  it.  Miss  Hendrick 
had  sinned,  and  Miss  Hendrick,  by  the  inevitable  laws  of  nature 
and  grace,  must  suffer.  She  dressed  herself  shiveringly,  went 
over,  and  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  the  sleeper's  shoulder. 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "  wake  up.  You'll  get  your  death  of 
cold  sitting  here." 

Cyrilla  lifted  her  head,  looking  in  the  dim  gray  morning 
light  pallid  and  wretched,  and  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

"  My  death  of  cold  ?  "  she  repeated,  bitterly.  "  No  such  luck, 
mademoiselle.  It  is  almost  a  pity  I  do  not ;  it  would  be  infi- 
nitely better  for  me  than  what  is  to  come." 

She  stood  up  as  she  spoke,  twisting  her  profuse  dishevelled 
black  hair  around  her  head,  looking  like  the  Tragic  Muse,  and 
fully  prepared  to  do  any  amount  of  melodrama  for  ma'amselle's 
benefit.  Ma'amselle  looked  at  her  in  distrust  and  displeasure. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Mees  Hendrick  ?  It 
would  be  better  for  you  to  be  dead  than  dismissed  this  school, 
— is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  Not  exactly.  If  nothing  worse  than  being  dismissed  this 
school  were  to  befall  me,"  answered  Cyrilla,  with  an  inflection 
of  contempt  she  could  not  suppress,  "  I  think  I  could  survive 
it.  No,  ma'amselle,  much  worse  than  that  will  follow." 

"  I  do  not  understand,  Mees  Hendrick,"  says  ma'amselle, 
Stiffly. 

>'  Jt  means  ruin,  then  ! "  cries  Cyrilla,  her  eyes  flashing,  her 


«A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT."  77 

tone  one  that  would  have  been  good  for  three  rounds  from  pi* 
and  gallery — "  utter,  life-long  ruin  !  Listen,  ma'amselle,  and  I 
will  tell  you  this  morning  what  I  would  have  died  sooner  than 
tell  last  night  in  the  presence  of  that  spy  and  informer,  Miss 
Jones  !  Oh,  yes  !  ma'amselle,  I  will  call  her  so.  What  does  it 
matter  what  I  say,  since  I  shall  be  turned  ignominiously  out  in  a 
day  or  two  ?  Even  the  murderer  can  say  his  say  out  when  he 
stands  on  the  gallows  !  " 

Ma'amselle  stood  perfectly  transfixed,  while  Cyrilla,  with  im- 
passioned eloquence,  poured  into  her  ears  the  story  of  Miss 
Dormer's  hatred  of  all  who  bore  the  name  of  Carew.  How  she 
had  wished  her  to  swear  never  to  see  him  or  speak  to  him  while- 
she  lived  ;  how  good  he  had  been  to  her  and  her  father  in  the 
days  gone  by,  what  a  pure  brotherly  and  sisterly  affection  there 
was  between  them,  how  absolutely  ignorant  she  had  been  of 
his  coming  to  Canada,  how  petrified  with  astonishment  at  sigh* 
of  him,  how  he  had  striven  to  tell  her  news  of  her  father,  how 
Miss  Jones  had  interfered  and  prevented  it,  how  in  desperation 
he  had  implored  her  to  grant  him  ten  minutes'  interview  in  the 
grounds,  and  how,  in  very  despair  at  being  unable  to  meet  him 
in  any  other  way,  or  even  write  to  him,  she  had  consented.  In 
the  torrent  of  Cyrilla' s  eloquence  mademoiselle  was  absolutely 
bewildered  and  carried  away.  How  was  the  little  simple-minded 
schoolmistress  to  estimate  the  dramatic  capabilities  of  her  very 
clever  pupil  ?  For  the  girl  herself  it  was  half  acting,  half  earnest. 
She  felt  reckless  this  morning — equal  to  either  fate.  After  all, 
who  could  tell  ?  The  glittering,  gas-lit  life  of  the  stage,  with  its 
music,  its  plaudits,  its  flowers,  its  rows  of  eager,  admiring  faces, 
might  be  hard  to  win,  but,  once  won,  would  it  not  be  infinitely 
preferable  to  the  deathly  dulness  of  existence  dragged  out  as 
the  wife  of  the  rich  and  respectable  Mr.  Donald  McKelpin  ? 
And  if  her  dark,  bold  .eyes  and  gypsy  face  really  brought  her 
money  and  fame,  why,  then,  she  might  send  for  Freddy  and 
marry  him,  and  "  live  happy  ever  after." 

Mademoiselle  Stephanie  stood  listening  to  Miss  Hendrick's 
vehement  outburst  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed  up  lips,  utterly 
perplexed  and  at  a  loss.  A  great  offence  had  been  done,  un- 
paralleled in  the  annals  of  the  pensionnat,  an  offence  for  which 
immediate  expulsion,  by  every  law  of  right  and  morality,  should 
be  the  penalty.  But  if  that  expulsion  was  to  ruin  this  young 
girl  for  life,  and  it  was  her  first  offence,  why,  then,  one  must 
hesitate.  She  had  ever  been  such  a  credit  to  them  all,  and 
really  her  story  sounded  plausible,  and — mademoiselle  wag 


?8  "  A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT.' 

staggered,  divided,  between  pity  and  duty — completely  at  a 
loss. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  your  aunt  will  deal  with  you  in  this 
severe  fashion,"  she  asked,  her  brows  bent.  "You  are  not 
deceiving  me,  Miss  Hendrick  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  stating  falsehoods,  mademoiselle," 
Cyrilla  answered,  majestically. 

"  And  she  will  send  you  in  disgrace  back  to  your  father  ?  " 

"  She  will  try,  mademoiselle,  but  I  will  not  go.  No  !  papa 
is  poor  enough  without  an  additional  drag  upon  him.  I  will 
never  go  back  to  be  that  drag." 

"  What,  then,  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle  !  I  decline  to  answer.  Once  I  am 
expelled  this  school  your  right  to  question  me  ends." 

"  But  I  have  not  expelled  you  yet,  and  I  demand  an  an- 
swer, Mees  Hendrick,"  cried  mademoiselle,  her  little  brown 
eyes  flashing. 

Cyrilla  laughed  after  a  reckless  fashion. 

"  I  might  marry  the  gentleman  I  met  in  the  grounds.  After 
compromising  me  in  the  way  he  has  done  it  is  the  least  repara- 
tion he  could  make,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  if  I  asked  him." 
Here  catching  sight  of  mademoiselle's  face  of  horror  and  incre- 
dulity, Cyrilla  nearly  broke  down.  "  But  you  need  not  fear  ;  I 
shall  not  ask  him.  I  shall  go  to  New  York  and  go  on  the  stage." 

Mademoiselle  Chateauroy's  eyes  had  been  gradually  dilating 
as  she  listened.  At  these  last  awful  words  a  sort  of  shriek  burst 
from  her  lips  : 

"  Oh,  man  Dieu  !  hear  her  !  go  on  the  stage  I  "  cried  little 
mademoiselle  in  piercing  accents,  and  precisely  the  same  tone 
as  though  her  abandoned  pupil  had  said,  '  I  will  go  to  perdition  ! ' 
"  Mees  Hendrick,  do  I  hear  you  aright  ?  Did  you  say  the 
stage  ?  " 

"  I  said  the  stage,  mademoiselle,"  Cyrilla  repeated,  imperturba- 
bly — "  no  other  life  is  open  to  me,  and  for  the  stage  alone  am  I 
qualified.  When  my  aunt  turns  me  from  her  doors  I  will  go 
direct  to  New  York — to  some  theatre  there — an  obscure  one, 
I  fear,  it  must  be  at  first — and  in  that  great  city,  in  the  theatrical 
profession,  make  my  living.  I  can  dance,  I  can  sing.  I  have 
perfect  health,  my  share  of  good  looks,  and  no  end  to  what  our 
cousins  across  the  border  call  '  cheek.'  I  shall  succeed — it  is 
only  a  question  of  time.  And  when  I  am  a  rich  and  popular 
actress,  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  I  shall  one  day  xeturn  here  and 
thank  you  for  having  turned  me  out  i  " 


"A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT."  79 

Iror  a  moment  mademoiselle  stood  speechless,  looted  to  the 
ground  by  the  matchless  audacity  of  this  reply,  and  once  more 
Cyrtlla'a  gravity  nearly  gave  way  as  she  looked  in  her  face." 
Then,  without  a  word,  with  horror  in  her  eyes,  she  hastily  walked 
out  of  the  room,  locking  the  door  after  her,  and  stood  panting 
on  the  other  side. 

"  I  must  speak  to  Jeanne,"  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  mon  Dieit  ! 
who  would  dream  of  the  evil  spirit  that  possesses  that  child  ?  " 

Breakfast  was  brought  to  Miss  Hendrick  in  the  solitude  of 
her  prison  by  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  herself,  who  also  made  a 
fire.  Miss  Hendrick  partook  of  that  meal  with  the  excellent 
appetite  of  a  hearty  school-girl,  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  eyeing 
her  in  terror  and  askance. 

How  the  matter  leaked  out  it  seemed  impossible  to  tell,  but 
leak  out  it  did  ;  perhaps  Miss  Jones's  exultaion  over  her 
enemy's  downfall  got  the  better  of  her  discretion,  but  as  the 
four  and  thirty  boarders  sat  down  to  their  matutinal  coffee  and 
"  pistolets"  it  was  darkly  whispered  about  that  some  direful  fate 
had  befallen  Cyrilla  Hendrick.  In  the  darkness  of  the  night 
she  had  committed  some  fearful  misdemeanor,  some  "deed 
without  a  name,"  and  was  under  lock  and  key  down  in  Ma- 
demoiselle Stephanie's  chamber. 

Saturday  in  the  school  was  a  half-holiday.  In  the  forenoon 
the  girls  wrote  German  exercises  and  looked  over  Monday's 
lessons.  All  morning  the  shadow  of  mystery  and  suspicion  hung 
over  the  class-room — girls  whispered  surreptitiously  behind  big 
books.  What  had  Cy  Hendrick  done  ?  What  was  to  be  her 
punishment  ?  Four  and  thirty  young  ladies  were  on  the  guivive, 
some  secretly  rejoicing,  some  simply  curious,  two  or  three 
slightly  regretful — for  Miss  Hendrick  was  by  no  means  popular 
— and  one,  one  only,  really  sorry  and  anxious — Sydney  Owen- 
son. 

"What  on  earth  can  Cy  have  done  ?"  Sydney  thought,  per- 
plexedly. "  We  parted  all  right  last  evening,  and  this  morning 
we  wake  and  find  her  imprisoned  and  disgraced  for  the  first 
time  in  three  years.  I  wish  I  understood.  Miss  Jones  looks 
compendiums — she  knows.  I'll  ask  her  after  class." 

Lessons  and  exercises  ended.  At  twelve  the  welcome  bell 
rang  announcing  that  studies  were  over  for  the  week,  and  the 
students  free  to  rush  out  pellmell  and  make  day  hideous  with 
meir  uproar.  Sydney  alone  lingered,  going  up  to  Miss  Jones, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  remain  behind,  overlook  desks,  and  put 
the  class-room  generally  in  order. 


8o  "A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT." 

"Miss  Jones,"  she  asked,  "what  has  Cyiilla  Hendrick 
done?" 

If  Miss  Jones  had  a  friend  in  all  the  school,  that  friend  was 
Miss  Owenson.  Miss  Owenson,  besides  being  an  heiress,  be- 
sides dressing  better  and  giving  away  more  presents  than  any 
other  half-dozen  pupils  together,  was  so  sweet  of  temper,  so 
courteous  of  manner,  so  kindly  of  heart,  so  gentle  of  tongue,  so 
gracefully  and  promptly  obedient,  that  she :Von  hearts  as  by 
magic.  A  certain  innate  nobility  of  character  made  her  ever 
ready  to  take  the  side  of  the  weaker  and  the  oppressed.  Miss 
Jones  owed  her  deliverance  from  many  a  small  tyranny  to  Syd- 
ney Owenson's  pleading.  Now  Miss  Jones  pursed  up  her  lips, 
and  her  eyes  snapped  maliciously. 

"Who  says  Miss  Hendrick  has  done  anything?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  We  all  know  she  has,  and  that  she  is  in 
punishment  down  in  Mademoiselle  Stephanie's  room.  'Toi- 
nette  says  she  wasn't  in  her  bed  all  night.  Now,  Miss  Jones,  what 
is  it  all  about  ?  " 

"  I  regret  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  inform  you,  Miss 
Owenson.  Any  confidence  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  may  repose 
in  me  1  consider  inviolable.  My  lips  are  sealed." 

Sydney  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  away. 

"I  shall  find  out  for  all  that.  It  is  very  odd,  I  must  say. 
How  could  Cy  have  got  into  any  trouble  after  going  to  her  room 
last  night  ?  " 

She  ran  down  stairs  and  straight  to  the  chambre  a  coucher  of 
Mile.  Stephanie.  She  would  find  the  door  locked,  no  doubt, 
but  at  least  she  could  talk  through  the  key-hole.  She  rapped 
softly. 

"  It  is  I,  Cy —  Sydney,"  she  whispered  ;  "  come  to  the  door 
and  speak  to  me." 

"  Come  in,  Syd,"  the  clear  voice  of  Cyrilla  answered.  "  The 
door  is  unlocked.  Pull  the  bobbin  and  the  latch  will  go  up." 

Sydney  opened  the  door  and  entered.  At  the  window  Cy- 
rilla sat  alone,  calmly  perusing  that  exciting  work  of  fiction, 
Le  Brun's  Telemaque. 

"  I  thought  you  were  locked  in  !  I  thought  you  were  in  pun- 
ishment ! "  Sydney  said,  bewildered. 

"  So  I  am,"  Cyrilla  answered,  laughing  ;  "  but  I  so  flustered 
poor  little  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  when  she  brought  me  my  break- 
fast by  my  dreadful  talk  about  being  an  actress,  that  she  went 
out  'all  of  a  tremble,'  as  the  old  ladies  say,  and  forgot  to  lock 
the  door.  Mile.  Stephanie  I  haven't  seen  since  she  got  up  this 


"A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT."  8l 

morning  I  daresay  she  has  improved  the  raining  hours  in  com- 
posing a  letter  to  Aunt  Phil,  painting  my  guilt  as  blackly  as  the 
best  black  ink  will  do  it.  She  will  have  a  fit  if  she  finds  you 
here  in  my  company — the  whitest  of  all  her  lambs  side  by  side 
with  her  one  black  sheep." 

"  Nonsense,  Cy.     What  on  earth  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Has  it  leaked  out,  then  ?  '  111  news  flies  apace.'  Has  Miss 
Jones  told  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Miss  Jones  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  My  pro- 
phetic, soul  told  me  so,  she  looked  so  quietly  exultant.  You 
didn't  try  to  murder  her  last  night  in  her  sleep  I  hope,  Cyrilla." 

"  Not  exactly.  If  ever  I  get  a  chance  I  will,  though.  I  owe 
Miss  Jones  a  long  debt  of  small  spites,  and  if  ever  I  get  a 
chance  I'll  pay  it  off.  What  did  I  do  ?  Why,  I  stole  out  of 
niv  room  last  night  at  midnight  to  meet  Fred  Carew." 

'"  Cyrilla  ! "     Cyrilla  laughed. 

"  My  dear  Syd,  if  I  had  assassinated  Miss  Jones  last  night  in 
her  vestal  slumber  you  couldn't  look  more  horror-stricken! 
Is  it  such  an  awful  crime,  then  ?  My  moral  perceptions  must  be 
blunt — for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see  the  enormity  of  it.  Look 
here,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

And  then  Miss  Hendrick,  with  the  utmost  sang  froid,  poured 
into  Miss  Ovvenson's  ear  the  tale  of  last  night's  misdoing. 

"  If  the  man  had  been  any  other  man  on  earth  than  poor 
Freddy,"  pursued  Miss  Hendrick,  "the  matter  wouldn't  amount 
to  much  after  all.  Expulsion  from  school  I  don't  mind  a  pin's 
point.  I  leave  at  Christmas  in  any  case,  and  a  shrill  scolding 
once  a  day  from  Aunt  Phil  until  the  day  I  married  her  pet 
Scotchman  would  be  the  sole  penalty.  But  now  it  means  ruin. 
Aunt  Phil  will  turn  me  out — oh,  yes,  she  will,  Syd,  as  surely  as 
we  both  sit  here.  No  prospective  fortune,  no  Mr.  McKelpin  tc 
make  me  the  happiest  of  women,  no  leading  the  society  of 
Montreal,  no  flirtation  with  Freddy,  nothing  but  go  forth,  like 
Jack  in  the  fairy  tales,  and  seek  my  fortune.  Jack  always 
found  his  fortune,  however,  and  so  shall  I." 

"  But,  Cyrilla,  good  gracious  !  this  is  awful.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  your  aunt  will  really  turn  you  out  ?  " 

"  Really,  Syd,  really — really.  And,  after  all,  one  can't  much 
blame  her,  poor  old  soul.  Last  night  I  rather  dreaded  my  fate  ; 
to-day  I  don't  seem  greatly  to  mind.  After  all,  if  the  worst 
comes  to  the  worst,  1  can  always  make  my  own  living." 

"As  an  actress?  Never,  Cy.  If  the  worst  does  come,  yoa 
shall  make  your  home  with  i  ic,  sooner  than  that.  Not  a  word, 
4* 


82  "A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT" 

Cyrilla,  I  insist  upon  it.  Oh,  darling,  think  how  nice  it  will  be, 
papa  and  mamma,  and  Bertie  and  you,  all  in  the  same  house  !  " 

Cyrilla  laughed. 

"  And  Bertie  wishing  me  at  Jericho  every  hour  of  the  day. 
And  papa  and  mamma,  pinks  of  propriety,  both  looking  at  me 
askance,  a  girl  expelled  her  school  and  turned  out  doors  by  her 
aunt.  Oh,  no,  Syd  ;  you're  the  best  and  dearest  of  friends,  bu1 
your  scheme  won't  work.  I  shall  go  on  the  stage,  as  1  say 
The  dream  of  my  life  has  ever  been  to  be  a  popular  actress, 
and  the  first  time  you  and  Bertie  visit  New  York  you  will  come 
and  see  me  play." 

"  And  Freddy  ?  " 

"  When  I  am  rich  enough  I  shall  marry  Freddy.  Poor 
fellow  !  how  sorry  he  will  be  when  he  hears  this.  It  is  all  the 
fault  of  that  detestable  Mary  Jane  Jones.  If  she  had  not  in- 
terfered at  Mrs.  Delamere's,  he  would  have  said  all  he  had  to 
say  there,  and  no  more  about  it.  It  is  her  hour  of  triumph 
now,  but  if  mine  ever  comes " 

"  Enough  of  this,  young  ladies  !  "  interrupted  the  shrill  voice 
of  Mademoiselle  Stephanie,  entering  hastily.  "  I  have  over- 
heard every  word.  Mees  Owenson,  why  do  I  find  you  here?" 

In  her  hand  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  held  a  letter  addressed 
in  most  legible  writing  to  Miss  Phillis  Dormer,  Montreal.  It 
was  Cyrilla' s  sentence  of  doom.  Sydney  started  up,  turning 
pale  and  clasping  her  hands. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,  pray — pray,  don't  send  that  letter.  You 
don't  know  how  her  aunt  hates  Mr.  Carew — how  implacable 
she  is  when  offended.  You  will  ruin  all  Cyrilla' s  prospects  for 
life.  It  is  her  first  offence.  She  has  always  been  so  good — 
you  have  always  been  so  proud  of  her.  She  has  been  such  a 
credit  to  the  school.  And  she  will  never,  never,  never  do  so 
again.  Oh,  ma'amselle — dear,  kind  Ma'amselle  Stephanie  ! 
don't  send  that  letter." 

Tears  stood  big  and  bright  in  Sydney's  beseeching  eyes,  as 
she  stood  with  clasped,  pleading  hands  before  the  preceptress. 

"  Hush,  Sydney  !  "  Cyrilla  interposed,  gently ;  "  it  is  of  no 
use.  Ma'amselle  has  heard  all  that  before." 

"  I  have  pleaded  for  Mees  Hendrick,"  ma'amselle  said,  look- 
ing troubled  ;  "  I  have  begged  the  good  aunt  to  forgive  her  this 
one  time." 

Cyrilla  smiled — serenely  reckless. 

"  You  don't  know  Miss  Dormer,  ma'amselle.  If  an  angel 
came  down  to  plead  for  me,  she  would  not  forgive  this.  Seu<? 


«A    TEMPEST  IN  A    TEAPOT."  83 

your  letter — what  does  it  signify?  I  will  never  give  her  the 
chance  to  turn  me  out.  I  will  go  straight  from  this  school  to 
New  York." 

"You  hear  that,  ma'amselle  ? "  Sydney  cried.  "You  will 
drive  her  to  desperation.  Do  not — do  not  send  that  letter ! 
She  is  sorry — she  will  never  offend  again.  Oh,  ma'amselle  ! 
listen  to  me.  I  am  going  away — you  always  said  you  liked  me. 
Grant  me,  then,  this  parting  favor.  It  is  the  first — it  will  be  the 
last  I  shall  ever  ask  !  " 

She  twined  her  pearl-white  arms  about  little  ma'amselle's 
saffron  neck  and  kissed  her.  And  wavering,  as  she  had  been 
since  morning,  ma'amselle's  resolution  wholly  gave  way  before 
that  caress.  She  kissed  Sydney's  sweet,  tear-wet  face,  and  then 
deliberately  tore  her  letter  through  the  middle. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  say,  petite.  Ah  !  U  ban  Dieu  has  given 
you  so  good  a  heart.  For  your  sake,  and  if  Mees  Hendrick 
will  bind  herself  to  repeat  the  offence  no  more,  her  punishment 
shall  end  here." 

Cyrilla  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  There  had  been  a  hard 
fight  for  it,  but  the  day  was  won. 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  she  said.  "I  promise  indeed 
with  all  my  heart.  Sydney,  I  owe  this  to  you.  I  cannot  thank 
you,  but  I  feel " 

Sydney  closed  her  lips  with  a  jubilant  little  kiss. 

"  All  right,  Cy — never  mind  how  you  feel.  I  knew  ma'am- 
selle was  too  good  to  do  it.  And  oh  !  ma'amselle,  please 
make  Miss  Jones  hold  her  tongue.  She  hates  Cyrilla,  and  will 
hurt  her  if  she  can." 

"  I  will  speak  to  Mees  Jones.  You  may  send  her  to  me  al 
once.  Go  now,  young  ladies,  and  let  this  be  the  very  last  time, 
Mees  Hendrick,  I  shall  ever  have  to  reprimand  you." 

The  girls  bowed  and  departed.  Cyrilla  broke  into  a  soft 
laugh. 

"  What  a  tragic  scene  !  '  Go,  sin  no  more  '  TJiat  quick- 
sand is  tided  over  safely,  thanks  to  you,  Syd ;  but  I  have  the 
strongest  internal  conviction  that  one  day  or  other  I  shall  gel 
into  some  horrible  scrape  through  Fred  Carew." 


84  THE  LA.T  NIGHT. 

CHAPTER  X. 
THE    LAST   NIGHT. 

j|T  is  raining  still,  and  raining  heavily ;  a  Novembet 
gale  surging  through  the  trees  of  the  play-ground, 
sending  the  rain  in  wild  white  sheets  before  it.  No 
out-door  romp  for  the  Chateauroy  fensionnaires  to- 
day. They  are  congregated  in  the  barn,  a  large  and  lofty 
building,  and  "  Ferre  1'Hermite"  is  tumultuously  beginning  as 
Sydney  and  Cyrilla  appear.  At  the  sight  of  the  latter,  a  whoop 
of  surprise  goes  up,  and  Miss  Jones,  standing  absently  looking 
out  at  the  storm,  turns  round,  and  sees  her  enemy — free. 

She  stands  and  looks — mute  with  surprise.  There  is  an 
audacious  smile,  as  usual,  on  Miss  Hendrick's  dark  face,  an 
audacious  laugh  in  her  black  eyes.  She  quits  Sydney  and  goes 
straight  up  to  Miss  Jones. 

"  You  are  to  go  to  Mademoiselle  Stephanie's  room  at  once, 
Miss  Jones,"  she  says,  with  a  most  exasperating  smile  ;  "  I  think 
she  has  a  word  of  warning  for  you." 

Miss  Jones  makes  no  retort,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  she 
has  none  ready.  There  is  a  pause  of  three  seconds,  perhaps, 
and  they  look  each  other  straight  in  the  eyes.  It  is  to  be  a 
duel  a  la  mart  between  them  henceforth — and  both  know  it. 
Then,  still  in  silence,  Miss  Jones  turns,  quits  the  play-ground, 
and  reports  herself  at  headquarters. 

Cyrilla  is  surrounded,  besieged  with  questions,  but  she 
shakes  them  off,  and  orders  them  imperiously  about  their 
business. 

Since  she  first  entered  the  school  she  has  been  queen-regnant 
• — queen-regnant  she  will  be  to  the  end.  She  joins  as  noisily  as 
the  smallest  girl  there  in  the  game,  her  piercingly  sweet  voice 
rising  in  the  monotonous  chant  high  above  all  the  rest.  So  Miss 
Jones  finds  her  upon  her  return.  The  interview  with  mademoi- 
selle has  left  Miss  Jones  a  trifle  paler  than  her  wont,  with  anger 
*t  may  be,  but  she  says  not  a  word  as  she  returns  to  her  former 
occupation  of  gazing  out  at  the  rain. 

The  long,  wet  afternoon  passes,  night  comes,  and  all  retire. 
Sunday  morning  breaks,  still  wet  and  windy  ;  there  is  to  be  no 
church-going,  greatly  to  the  disappointment  of  the  young  ladies. 
Instead,  mademoiselle  reads  aloud  for  an  hour  some  book  of 


THE  LAST  NIGHT.  85 

sermons.  They  dine  at  three  instead  of  one,  a  high  festival 
dinner  of  roast-beef  and  plum-pudding.  Then  the  girls  are 
left  to  themselves,  to  wander  about  corridors  and  passages, 
visit  each  other's  rooms,  gossip,  write  letters,  or  read,  as  they 
please. 

It  is  Sydney  Owenson's  last  day.  To-morrow  morning  she 
goes,  to  be  married  in  a  month.  Four  and  thirty  girlish  bosoms 
beat  with  envy  at  that  thought !  It  it  like  a  fairy  tale  to  them  ; 
nothing  of  the  kind  has  ever  transpired  before,  nothing  else  is 
thought  of,  or  talked  of,  all  day.  Sydney  moves  about  among 
them,  in  a  pretty  dress  of  silk,  the  famous  chain  and  locket 
around  her  neck,  her  engagement  ring  sparkling  on  her  finger, 
a  glistening  watch  at  her  girdle,  all  her  golden,  feathery  curia 
falling  over  her  shoulders — a  shining  vision.  One  by  one,  she 
visits  the  girls,  sobbing  a  little  sob  here  and  there,  and  realizing 
for  the  first  time  how  fond  she  is  of  them  all.  Cyrilla  goes  with 
her ;  and  so  the  desolate,  lead-colored  Sabbath  afternoon 
deepens  into  night,  and  it  is  quite  dark  when  Mademoiselle 
Jeanne  comes  up  and  says  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Delamere  have 
called,  and  are  in  the  parlor  waiting  to  see  her. 

And,  "  But  no,  mademoiselle,"  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  says, 
laying  a  restraining  hand  upon  Cyrilla's  arm,  "  Mees  Hendrick 
is  not  to  accompany  you." 

Sydney  descends.  Firelight  and  lamplight  illumine  the  parlor 
and  dazzle  her  for  a  moment  coming  out  of  the  dusk.  She 
looks  and  sees,  not  alone  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Delamere,  but  that 
most  coolly  audacious  of  young  officers,  Mr.  Fred  Carew. 
Opposite  him,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  face  like  a  small 
chocolate  mask,  sits  Mademoiselle  Stephanie. 

Sydney  gives  a  little  gasp,  a  little  laugh,  and  a  little  blush,  as 
she  meets  his  eyes.  Then  arises  Mrs.  Delamere  with  effusion, 
and  Miss  Owenson  is  folded  to  her  brown- silk  bosom.  She 
shakes  hands  with  the  Colonel  and  Mr.  Carew,  and  sits  demurely 
down,  understanding  why  Mademoiselle  Jeanne  had  put  a 
summary  stop  to  Cyrilla's  accompanying  her. 

The  interview  ir,  not  long.  Mrs.  Delamere  chats  with  her  in 
her  kind,  motherly  way.  The  Colonel  booms  in  occasionally  with 
his  ponderous  laugh,  and  Mr.  Carew  sits  and  smiles  upon  her,  and 
looks  handsome  and  well-dressed,  and  addresses  the  few  pleasant 
little  remarks  he  does  make  almost  exclusively  to  mademoiselle. 
In  strong  suppressed  displeasure  mademoiselle  responds,  mono 
syllabic  responses,  and  then  the  call  is  over,  -jnd  they  are  stand- 
ing up,  and  Mrs.  Delamere,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  is  kissing 


86  THE  LAST  NIGHT. 

Sydney  good-bj .  Again  she  shakes  hands  with  the  Colonel, 
then  shyly  with  Mr.  Carew,  and  as  he  holds  her  hand  for  a  mo- 
ment and  bows  over  it,  she  feels  a  note  suddenly  and  deftly 
slipped  into  it.  Her  fingers  close  over  it,  but  she  does  not 
look  at  him  ;  then  they  are  gone,  and  she  is  alone,  her  heart 
beating  guiltily,  with  mademoiselle. 

"  That  is  the  young  man,  Carew,  whom  Mees  Hendrick  met 
last  night,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  asks,  her  little  eyes  flashing.  "  Most 
insolent  his  earning  here.  He  shall  be  admitted  no  more." 

Sydney  flies  off  to  deliver  her  note,  and  finds  Cyrilla  lingering 
on  the  upper  landing. 

"  For  you,  Cy — from  Mr.  Carew,"  she  whispers.  "  Would 
you  believe  such  effrontery  ? — he  actually  came  with  the  Dela- 
rneres.  He  slipped  this  into  my  hand  as  he  said  good-by." 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  piece  of  effrontery  Fred 
Carew  would  not  be  capable  of.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie's 
face  must  have  been  a  study." 

"It  was,"  laughs  Sydney  ;  "  he  is  not  to  be  allowed  here  again. 
She  was  proof  against  his  sweetest  smiles  and  tenderest 
glances." 

Cyrilla  reads  her  note,  her  face  softening,  her  eyes  lighting. 
It  is  not  lo'ng — the  pen  is  by  no  means  mightier  than  the  sword 
in  Mr.  Carew's  grasp — but  it  brings  an  eloquent  flush  to  the 
girl's  dark  cheek. 

"  Poor  foolish  Freddy,"  she  says  with  a  half  laugh,  a  half  sigh, 
"What  nonsense  he  writes.  He  goes  to  Montreal  for  the  win- 
ter, and  he  wants — he  actually  wants  me  to  marry  him  as  soor 
as  I  leave  school.  '  Something  will  turn  up,'  he  says,  in  his  ab- 
surd way;  'something  always  turns  up  to  help  virtuous  poverty. 
And  if  it  doetn't,  why  seven-and-sixpence  a  day  will  buy  daily 
bread  and  beefsteaks,  and  what  more  do  we  want  ?  Lord  Dun- 
raith  will  send  us  an  odd  fifty  now  and  then,  and  Miss  Dormer 
will  come  round  when  there's  no  help  for  it.  Throw  over  the 
soap-and-candle  man,  Beauty,  and  let  us  be  a  comfoi  table 
couple.'  Did  you  ever  hear  such  idiocy,  Syd  ?  And  the  best 
of  it  is  he  means  every  word." 

"  Is  it  idiocy?"  asks  Sydney.  "I  don't  know,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that,  liking  him  as  you  do,  it  will  be  something  worse  than 
idiocy  to  marry  the  soap-and-candle  man.  I  can't  understand 
your  loving  Mr.  Carew  and  marrying  Mr.  McKelpin." 

"  No,  I  dare  say  not,"  Cyrilla  answers,  calmly  ;  "  but  then  you 
see  you've  been  brought  up  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  a  bloated  aris- 
tocrat, Syd,  while  I  am  a  pauper,  and  have  been  from  birth.  If 


•'  THE  LAST  NIGHT."  87 

I  married  Freddy,  I  would  go  a  pauper  to  my  grave.  There  is 
no  choice.  '  Needs  must,1  saith  the  proverb,  '  when  the  devil 
drives.1  I  wish — yes,  Sydney — with  all  my  heart,  I  wish  I 
might  marry  Fred  Carew,  but  I  can't,  and  there  the  matter 
ends.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it,  it  always  makes  me  uncom- 
fortable. Let  us  talk  of  you.  To  think  that  this  time  to-mor- 
row night  you  will  be  hundreds  of  miles  a,way  !  " 

They  are  pacing  up  and  down  the  long,  deserted  class-room. 
The  rain  has  ceased,  a  few  frosty  stars  glimmer  through  rifts  in 
the  cloudy  sky.  Far  below,  the  merry  tumult  of  girlish  voices 
and  laughter  comes,  far  below  they  can  see  the  lighted  passages 
and  rooms.  Outside,  the  lonesome  wind  sighs  up  and  down 
the  deserted  Rue  St.  Dominique. 

"  Hundreds  of  miles  away  !  "  Sydney  echoes,  with  a  sigh. 
"  Yes." 

"You  are  not  sorry,  Syd.  Honestly  now.  You  are  not 
sorry  to  quit  this  stupid,  humdrum  school,  these  noisy,  romp- 
ing girls,  the  drudgery  of  endless  lessons,  for  home  and  freedom, 
Bertie  Vaughan  and  bridal  blossoms !  Don't  say  you  are,  for  it 
is  too  much  for  human  credulity  to  believe." 

"  Sorry,  Cy  ?  Well,  no.  I  am  glad  to  go  home,  glad  to  be 
with  papa  and  mamma,  and  Bertie,  of  course,  but  still " 

"  But  still  that  good,  tender  heart  of  yours,  my  Sydney,  has  a 
soft  spot  for  '  Frere  1'Hermite,'  and  the  Demoiselles  Chateau  roy, 
and  even  crusty  Miss  Jones.  It  speaks  well  for  you,  c/ierie,  but 
is  not  over-flattering  to  Mr.  Vaughan.  You  preached  of  love  a 
moment  ago,  yet  here  you  are  going  to  marry  a  man  you  don't 
care  a  straw  for." 

"  Don't  I  ?  That  is  your  mistake,  Cy.  I  care  whole  bundles 
of  straw  for  Bertie — haven't  I  told  you  so,  again  and  again  ?  I 
like  him  better  than  any  man  I  know." 

"And  you  know — how  many?  The  fat  old  colonel — one," 
said  Miss  Hendrick,  checking  them  off  on  her  fingers ;  "  the 
fussy  old  doctor — two  ;  little  old  Professor  Chapsal — three  ; 
venerable  Jean  Baptiste  Remain — four  ;  your  papa — five. 
That  comprises  the  list,  does  it  not  ?  And  you  like  him  better 
than  any  man  you  know.  Happy  Mr.  Vaughan  ! " 

"  I  like  him  better  than  iny  man  1  ever  saw,  then,''  cries  Syd- 
ney, defiantly,  "your  pretty  little  lover  included.  And  papa 
and  mamma  like  him,  and  wish  me  to  marry  him  ;  that  is  suf- 
ficient, if  there  were  no  other  reason.  I  don't  believe  in  that 
mad,  selfish  s/>rt  o£_passion  we  read  of,  where  girls  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  th^ir  fathers  and  mothers,  and  homes,  and  soul'i 


88  «  THE  LAST  NIGHT." 

salvation  for  some  man  who  takes  their  fancy.  I  hate  you  when 
you  are  cynical  and  sarcastic  and  wordy,  Cyrilla.  I  wish  you 
would  drop  it  ;  it  doesn't  become  you.  Leave  it  for  poor, 
disappointed,  crossed-in-love  Miss  Dormer." 

"  Bravo,  Syd  ?  Who'd  have  thought  it  ?  I  begin  to  have 
hopes  of  you  yet.  I  only  trust  your  Bertie  may  be  worthy  of 
his  sweet  little  wife.  For  you  are  a  little  jewel,  Sydney,  and 
better  than  you  are  pretty." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Cy  !     Drop  that." 

"  1  shall  miss  you  horribly,  chere  belle"  Cyrilla  goes  on,  plaint- 
ively. "You  were  the  leaven  in  this  dull  house  that  leavened 

the  whols  mass.     Still,  it's  only  till  Christmas,  and  then ' 

her  eyes  sparkle  in  the  dusk,  she  catches  her  breath,  and  her 
color  rises. 

"  You  will  go  to  Montreal,  and  Freddy  will  be  there.  You 
will  see  him  surreptitiously,  and  all  the  time  you  will  be  pro- 
mising Mr.  McKelpin  and  your  aunt  to  marry  him,"  supple- 
ments Miss  Owenson,  gravely.  "Take  care,  Cyrilla;  that's  a 
dangerous  sort  of  game,  and  may  end  in  bringing  you  to  grief." 

"  Little  croaker !  the  danger  of  it  will  be  the  spice  of  life. 
And,  meantime,  if  your  papa  writes  a  nice  diplomatic  note  to 
Aunt  Phil,  and  gets  her  consent,  I  shall  'haste  to  the  wedding,' 
see  Master  Bertie,  and  bestow  my  benediction  on  your  nuptials. 
I  will  never  forgive  Aunt  Dormer  if  she  doesn't  let  me  go." 

Arm  in  arm  the  two  girls  pace  up  and  down  the  long,  chill 
room,  talking  eagerly  in  undertones.  In  another  half  hour  the 
bell  for  evening  prayers  rings,  and  their  last  tete-d-tete,  where 
they  have  held  so  many,  is  at  an  end. 

"  Good-by,  old  class-room,"  Sydney  said,  wistfully.  "  I  have 
spent  some  very  jolly  days  here,  after  all." 

Prayers  and  pious  reading  were  long  on  Sunday  night ;  most 
of  the  girls  were  yawning  audibly,  a  few  were  nodding,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  most  reprobate  fast  asleep  before  the  close.  Then 
to  their  rooms,  and  silence  and  darkness  brooded  over  the  mini- 
ature world  of  the  boarding-school,  with  its  bread-and  butter 
hopes  and  fears,  heart-burnings  and  passions. 
,  Monday  morning  came — a  perfect  day,  sparkling  with  frosty 
fall  sunshine.  A  buzz  of  suppressed  excitement  ran  through  the 
school.  A  "round-robin"  for  a  half  holiday  was  sent  to  Made- 
moiselle Stephanie,  and  was  granted.  Breakfast  was  eaten  amid 
a  gabble  of  conversation,  and  as  they  arose  from  the  table  a  thrill 
ran  through  all  as  a  hackney-coach  drove  up  to  the  door.  The 
messenger  for  Sydney  Owenson  had  come. 


89 

She  was  dressed  in  her  travelling  suit,  a  pretty  "  conserve  "  of 
giay  and  blue,  with  hat  and  gloves  to  match.  Her  trunk  stood 
packed  and  strapped  in  the  hall.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  came 
herself  tremulously  to  bear  the  message  that  Rebecca  was  wait- 
ing, and  that  Miss  Owenson  must  say  good-by  at  once.  There 
was  no  time  to  lose — their  train  started  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

The  scene  that  ensued  !  who  may  tell  ?  "  Good  by  !  good- 
by  !  good-by  !  "  tears,  kisses,  promises  to  write  ad  infinitum,  and 
then  Sydney,  her  handkerchief  quite  drenched  with  weeping, 
tears  herself  away,  and  springs  into  the  carriage.  The  door  is 
closed,  she  leans  forward  her  lovely  tear-wet  face.  They  are 
all  there  on  the  steps,  teachers,  pupils,  servants,  and,  foremost, 
the  tall,  erect  figure  and  fine  face  of  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

u Good-by,  Cy — dearest  Cy,"  she  sobs,  and  "Good-by,  Syd- 
ney." Miss  Hendrick  answers,  gravely,  but  without  tears. 

The  coachman  cracks  his  whip,  and  they  are  off,  rattling  down 
the  silent  Rue  St.  Dominique,  and  the  pensionnat*  and  the 
throng  of  eager  faces  out  of  sight.  She  falls  back,  crying  quietly, 
but  before  they  are  half  way  to  the  station  her  tears  are  dried 
and  she  is  listening  eagerly  to  Rebecca's  account  of  all  at 
home. 

The  station  is  reached — smiles  have  totally  routed  tears,  the 
pretty  gray  eyes  sparkle,  the  delicate  cheeks  flush.  The  old 
life  is  at  an  end.  After  all,  Cy  was  right,  it  was  dull — aud  the 
new  one  is  begun.  The  old  one  ended  in  darkness  and  rain, 
the  new  one  begins  in  sunshine  and  brightness.  It  is  emble- 
matic, the  girl  thinks,  and  she  gives  her  engagement  ring  a  shy 
little  kiss,  and  thinks,  with  a  happy  blush  and  smile,  that  she  is 
going  to  Bertie,  to  her  bridegroom — and  so  forgets  the  pension- 
nat. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"A   LAGGARD   IN    LOVE." 

HARLOTTE,  what  time  is  it  ?     If  it  isn  t  past  foui 

that  confounded  clock  must  be  slow." 

Captain   Owenson — "  Squire    Owenson  "  as  he  is 

known  to  all  men  hereabouts — asks  this  question  for 
the  twentieth  time  within  the  hour,  turning  over  with  an  impa- 
tient half  sigh,  half  groan,  in  his  big  invalid  chair.  And  Char- 


90  *A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 

lotte,  Otherwise  Mrs.  Owenson,  looks  up  from  her  tatting,  and 
answers  placidly,  as  she  has  answered  placidly  also  twenty  times 
before  : 

"  It  wants  twenty  minutes  of  four,  Reginald,  and  the  clock  is 
right  to  a  second." 

':  Oh-h  h  !  "  says  the  Captain.  It  is  a  half  groan  of  pain,  half 
grunt  of  anger,  and  impatiently  the  invalid  flounces  over  on  the 
other  side,  and  shuts  his  eyes.  He  has  not  seen  his  Sydney, 
the  "  sole  daughter  of  his  house  and  heart,"  his  one  best 
treasure  in  life,  for  close  upon  a  year,  and  all  that  year  scarcely 
seems  as  long  to  his  intolerable  impatience,  as  do  the  hours  of 
this  lagging  day  that  is  to  bring  her  home.  At  no  period  of  his 
career  has  patience  been  the  virtue  upon  which  the  friends  of 
Reginald  Algernon  Owenson  have  placed  their  hopes  of  h;s 
canonization,  and  years  of  ill-health  have  by  no  means  strength- 
ened it,  as  his  wife  knows  to  her  cost.  He  is  a  tall,  gaunt 
man,  with  a  face  ?till  handsome  in  spite  of  its  haggardness, 
bright,  restless  eyes,  and  that  particularly  livid  look  that  organic 
heart  disease  gives.  The  large,  gray  eyes,  closed  so  wearily 
now,  are  the  counterpart  of  Sydney's,  and  the  abundant  and  un- 
silvered  hair  not  many  shades  darker. 

By  the  lace-draped  bay  window  of  this  her  husband's  invalid 
sitting-room  sits  Mrs.  Owenson,  serenely  doing  tatting.  A 
tall,  thin,  faded  lady,  with  pale  blue  eyes,  pale,  fairish  complex- 
ion, and  a  general  air  of  cheerful  insipidity.  In  early  youth 
Mrs.  Owenson  was  a  beauty — in  the  maturity  of  seven  and 
forty  years,  Mrs.  Owenson  fancies  herself  a  beauty  still. 

There  is  silence  in  the  room  for  a  few  minutes.  It  is  a  very 
large  and  airy  room,  furnished  with  the  taste  and  elegance  of 
culture  and  wealth.  There  are  pictures  on  the  walls,  busts  on 
brackets,  statuettes  in  corners,  bronzes  on  the  chimney-piece, 
books  and  flowers  on  the  table,  and  over  all,  more  beautiful 
than  all,  the  crisp  golden  sunshine  of  the  November  afternoon. 
From  the  window  you  saw  a  lovely  view,  spreading  woodland 
all  glowing  with  the  rubies  and  orange  of  that  most  exquisite 
and  poetic  season  the  "Fall,"  emerald  slopes  of  sward,  and  far 
away  the  great  Atlantic  Ocean,  spreading  until  it  melted  into 
the  dazzling  blue  sky. 

The  minutes  drag  like  hours  to  the  nervously  irritable  man, 
who  bears  suffering  as  most  men  bear  it,  in  angry,  vehement 
protest.  A  brave  man  in  his  day  he  has  been,  but  brave  under 
ill-health,  slow,  ciuel  pain,  he  is  not.  Placid  Mrs.  Owenson, 
who  sits,  seeing  nothing  of  the  gorgeous  picture  before  her, 


"A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE"  91 

whose  whole  small  soul  is  absorbed  in  her  tatting,  who  jumps 
on  a  chair,  and  shrieks  at  sight  of  a  mouse,  would  have  borne 
it  all  with  the  pathetic,  matter-of-course,  infinite  patience  of 
woman,  had  she  been  chosen  for  the  martyrdom. 

Presently  the  sick  man  opens  his  eyes,  bright  and  restless 
with  impatience. 

"  Bertie  is  late,  too,"  he  growls ;  "  he  was  to  return  by  the 
two  o'clock  train.  A  pretty  thing  for  Sydney,  a  fine  compli- 
ment indeed,  to  get  here  and  find  him  gallivanting  away  in  New 
York.  It  seems  to  me  he  does  nothing  but  gallivant  since  his 
return  from  England — returning  plucked  too  !  Young  dunder- 
head !  I  don't  like  it !  I  won't  have  it !  He  shall  stay  quietly 
at  home  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why  ! " 

"  My  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  calmly  measuring  off  her 
tatting,  "  you  mustn't  excite  yourself,  you  know.  Doctors 
Howard  and  Delaney  both  said  particularly  you  were  never,  on 
any  account,  to  excite  yourself." 

"Hang  Doctors  Howard  and  Delaney!  Don't  be  a  fool, 
Mrs.  Owenson  !  I'm  not  talking  of  those  two  licensed  quacks. 
I'm  talking  of  Bertie  Vaughan's  gallivanting,  and  I  say  it  shall 
end  or  I  will  know  the  reason  why." 

"Well,  now,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  more  placid  if  possible 
than  ever,  "  I  don't  believe  Bertie's  gallivanting,  whatever  that 
may  be  ;  and  as  for  his  going  to  New  York  two  days  ago,  you 
know,  Reginald,  you  gave  him  permission  yourself.  Lord 
Dearborn  is  stopping  there  at  a  hotel,  before  going  to  shoot 
what-you-call-'ems — buffaloes — and  Bertie  and  he  were  bosom 
friends  at  college,  and  naturally  Bertie  wanted  to  see  him  before 
he  left.  And  you  told  him  yourself — now  Reginald,  love,  you 
know  you  told  him  yourself,  to  invite  him  to  the  wedding, 
and " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes  !  O  Lord !  what  a  thing  a  woman's 
tongue  is  !  Men  may  come  and  men  may  go,  but  it  goes  on 
forever.  Don't  I  know  all  that,  and  don't  I  know,  too,  that  he 
promised  faithfully  to  be  here  by  the  two  o'clock  tram,  in  time 
to  meet  Sydney.  And  now  it's  nearly  four.  People  who  won't 
keep  their  promises  in  little  things  won't  keep  them  in  great. 
And  this  is  no  little  thing,  by  George  !  slighting  Sydney.  Isn't 
it  time  for  those  confounded  drops  yet,  Char  ?  Lay  down  that 
beastly  rubbish  you  are  wasting  time  over  and  attend  to  your 
duties." 

Still  serene,  still  unruffled,  Mrs.  Owenson  obeys.  To  tell 
the  truth,  her  liege  lord's  ceaseless  grumbling  has  little  more 


92  "A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 

effect  upon  her  well-balanced  mind  than  the  sighing  of  the  fitfui 
wind  out  among  the  trees.  A  perfect  digestion,  an  unshattTed 
nervous  system,  an  unlimited  capacity  for  sleep,  raise  Mrs. 
Ovvenson  superior  to  every  trial  of  life. 

She  lays  down  the  obnoxious  rubbish,  pours  out  the  drops 
carefully  in  a  little  crystal  cup,  and  hands  it  to  her  husband. 
As  he  takes  it  the  shrill  shriek  of  the  locomotive,  rushing  into 
the  station  two  miles  distant,  rends  the  evening  air. 

"  Thank  God,  there's  the  train,"  he  says,  with  a  sort  of  gasp 
— "  Sydney's  train.  In  fifteen  minutes  my  darling  will  be 
here." 

"  And  I  will  go  and  see  about  dinner,  Reginald"  remarks, 
Mrs.  Ovvenson,  settling  her  cap  with  a  pleased  simper  at  hei- 
self  in  the  glass,  "  if  you  can  spare  me." 

"  Spare  you  !  What  the  devil  good  are  you  to  any  one 
I  should  like  to  know  !  sitting  there  with  your  eternal  knit- 
ting » 

"  Not  knitting,  Reginald,  love,"  remonstrates  Mrs.  Ovvenson, 
"  knitting's  old-fashioned.  Tatting." 

A  disgusted  growl  is  the  gentle  invalid's  answer.  He  closes 
his  eyes  and  falls  back  among  his  pillows  once  more.  Always 
a  bit  of  a  martinet,  in  his  own  household  and  neighborhood,  as 
erstwhile  on  the  quarterdeck,  years  of  suffering  have  rendered 
him  irritable  and  savage  to  an  almost  unbearable  degree. 
Death  is  near,  he  knows,  hovering  outside  his  threshold  by  day 
and  by  night — may  cry  "  come  ! "  at  any  moment,  and  his  pas- 
sionate protest  against  the  inexorable  decree  never  ceases. 
His  longing  for  life  is  almost  piteous  in  its  intensity — he  holds 
his  grasp  upon  it  as  by  a  hair,  and  each  outbreak  of  anger  or 
excitement  may  snap  that  hair  in  twain. 

The  great  house  is  very  still — the  sick-room  is  far  removed 
from  all  household  tumult.  It  is  a  great  house — "  a  house 
upon  a  hill-top,"  a  huge  red  brick  structure,  with  acres  of  farm 
and  field,  of  orchard  and  kitchen  garden,  belts  of  lawn  and 
wooded  slopes.  It  stands  nearly  half  a  mile  from  any  othei 
dwelling — a  whole  mile  from  the  town  of  Wyckcliffe.  A  broad 
sweep  of  drive  leads  up  to  the  portico  entrance  in  front,  slop 
ing  away  in  the  rear  down  to  the  sea-shore.  There  are  many 
great  men  in  the  smoky  manufacturing  town  of  Wyckcliffe — as 
great  as  half  a  million  dollars  can  make  them,  but  ever  and 
always  Squire  Owenson,  the  great  man  par  excellence.  He  is 
the  wealthiest,  he  lives  in  the  finest  house,  he  drives  the  finest 
horses,  he  owns  the  finest  farms,  he  keeps  the  largest  staff  of 


"A  LAGGARD  IN"  LOVE."  93 

servants,  and  above  all  he  has  the  air  of  one  born  and  bred  to 
command.  Loftily  gracious  and  condescending,  he  has  walked 
his  uplifted  way  among  these  good  people,  and  the  rich,  shrewd 
manufacturers  submit  good-humoredly  to  being  patronized  and 
smile  in  their  sleeve  over  it.  "  A  tip-top  old  swell,"  is  the  uni- 
versal verdict,  "  in  spite  of  his  British  airs,  free  with  his  money 
as  a  lord,  ready  to  help  any  one  in  distress,  and  a  credit  to  the 
town  every  way  you  take  him."  A  haughty  old  sprig  of  gentil- 
ity this  Squire  Owenson,  setting  a  much  greater  value  on  birth* 
and  blood  than  either  of  these  useful  things  are  entitled  to,  and 
loving,  with  a  love  great  and  all  absorbing,  his  slim,  pretty,  yel- 
low-haired "  little  maid  "  and  heiress.  The  one  desire  of  his 
heart,  when  first  he  settled  here,  had  been  to  found  a  house 
and  a  name,  that  would  become  a  power  in  the  land,  to  have 
"The  Place"  descend  from  Owenson  to  Owenson,  for  all  time. 
But  Mrs.  Owenson,  who  disappointed  him  in  everything,  disap- 
pointed him  in  this.  Six  babies  were  born,  and  with  the  usual 
perversity  of  her  contrary  sex,  each  of  these  babies  was  a  girl. 
To  make  matters  worse,  five  died  in  infancy,  and  Sydney, 
"  last,  brightest,  and  best,"  alone  shot  up  and  flourished.  Shot 
up,  slender  and  pretty,  an  Owenson  her  father  rejoiced  to  see 
in  face  and  nature.  It  was  then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Bertie 
Vaughan.  Since  Providence  deigned  him  no  son,  Bertie 
should  be  his  son,  should  marry  Sydney,  should  change  his 
name  to  Vaughan  Owenson,  and  so  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Owenson 
hand  down  "  The  Place  "  to  fame  and  posterity.  The  thought 
grew  with  every  year.  No  exception  could  be  taken  to  the 
orphan  lad  on  the  score  of  birth,  and  for  his  poverty  the  captain 
did  not  care — he  had  enough  for  both.  Yes,  yes  !  the  very  hour 
the  boy  and  girl  were  old  enough  they  should  be  married.  It 
was  the  one  hope,  the  one  dream  of  his  life,  growing  stronger 
as  death  came  near.  Of  late  he  had  been  a  little  disappointed 
in  young  Vaughan.  He  had  returned  from  Cambridge 
"  plucked,"  his  name  never  appeared  in  the  "  University 
Eight ;  "  at  nothing,  either  physical  or  mental,  so  far  as  the  old 
sailor  could  see,  had  he  distinguished  himself.  He  was  without 
ballast,  without  "backbone,"  and  never  had  Captain  Owenson 
sighed  so  bitterly  over  the  realization  as  on  his  last  return. 
Still,  all  things  cannot  be  as  we  would  have  them  here  below. 
He  would  love  Sydney  and  be  good  to  her,  he  could  hardly  fail 
in  //iiit,  and  with  that  both  she  and  her  father  must  fain  be  con- 
tent. 

"  We  can't  make  statesmen,  or  orators,  or  great  reformers  to 


94  "A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 

order,"  the  captain  thought.  "The  lad's  a  good  lad.  as  the 
class  go — has  no  vice  in  him  that  I  can  see ;  will  make  a  re- 
spectable, easy-going  gentleman  farmer,  quite  willing  to  be  tied 
to  his  wife's  apron-strings  all  his  life;  and  as  that's  the  sort  of 
men  women  like,  why,  I  dare  say,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for 
the  little  one  that  he's  not  clever.  Your  clever  man  rarely 
makes  a  good  husband." 

He  lay  thinking  this  for  the  thousandth  time,  with  knitted 
brows  and  that  expression  of  repressed  pain  that  never  left  his 
face,  more  strongly  marked  than  ever. 

Twenty  minutes  had  ticked  off  on  the  clock,  the  yellow  lines  of 
the  slanting  afternoon  sun  were  glimmering  more  and  more 
faintly  through  the  brown  boles  of  the  trees,  when  carriage 
wheels  came  rattling  loudly  up  the  drive.  He  started  upright 
in  his  seat,  a  red  flush  lighting  his  haggard  face,  his  heart  throb- 
bing like  a  sledge-hammer  against  his  side.  There  was  the 
sound  of  a  sweet,  clear  girlish  voice  and  laugh,  then  a  footstep 
came  flying  up  the  stairs,  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and  fresh, 
and  fair  and  breezy,  his  darling  was  in  the  room,  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  her  kisses  raining  on  his  face. 

"  Papa  !  papa  !  dear,  darling,  blessed  old  papa  !  how  glad  I 
am  to  be  with  you  again  !  " 

He  could  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  he  could  only  hold  her  to 
him  hard  ;  gasping  with  that  convulsive  beating  of  the  heart. 
The  heavy,  labored  pulsations  frightened  Sydney  ;  she  drew  her- 
self away  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Papa,  how  your  heart  beats  !  Oh,  papa,  don't  say  you  are 
any  worse  ! "  she  cried  out,  in  a  terrified  voice. 

"  No — darling,"  he  answered,  a  great  pant  between  every 
word;  "only — the  joy — of  your — coming — "  he  stopped  and 
pressed  his  hand  hard  over  the  suffocating  throbs.  "  Give  me 
— that — medicine,  Sydney." 

"I'll  do  it,  Sydney,"  her  mother  said,  coming  in.      "I  told 
you,  Reginald,  not  to  excite  yourself.     I'm  sure  you  knew  Syd 
ney  was  coming,  and  there  was  no  need  to  get  into  a  gale  about 
it  like  this." 

The  squire's  answer  was  a  glare  of  impotent  fury  as  he  took 
the  cordial  from  the  exasperatingly  calm  partner  of  his  bosom. 
Sydney's  great  compassionate  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  as  she 
nestled  close  to  his  shoulder,  one  arm  about  his  neck. 

"  Lie  back,  papa,"  she  said,  "  among  the  pillows.  I  am  sorry 
— oh,  darling  papa !  sorrier  than  sorry — to  see  you  like  this. 
Now  let  me  fan  you.  Please  don't  excite  yourself  the  least 
bit  about  me,  or  I  shall  be  sorry  I  came." 


"A   LAGGARD  IN  LOVE."  95 

'  Little  kisses,  light  as  thistle-down,  sorrowfully  tender  as  love 
could  make  them,  punctuated  this  speech.  The  father's  gaze 
dwelt  on  her,  as  men  do  gaze  upon  that  which  is  the  apple  of 
their  eye. 

"  I  am  better  now,  little  one.  Stand  off,  my  baby,  and  let 
me  look  at  you.  Charlotte,  look  here — Sydney  is  as  tall  as 
yourself." 

"  Sydney  takes  after  me  in  figure,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  with 
a  simper.  "  J  was  always  considered  a  very  fine  figure  when  a 
girl.  They  used  to  call  me  and  my  two  cousins,  Elizabeth  and 
Jane  Bender,  the  Three  Graces.  It  runs  in  our  family." 

"Runs  in  your  fiddlestick!"  growled  her  husband,  with 
ineffable  disgust.  "  Sydney  is  an  Owenson,  figure  and  face, 
wonderfully  grown  and  marvellously  improved.  Ah,  Bertie's 
going  to  get  a  golden  treasure,  that  I  foresee.  You  don't  ask 
after  your  sweetheart,  little  one,"  her  father  said,  pinching  her 
ear. 

"  My  sweetheart  ?  Oh,  how  droll,"  laughed  Sydney.  "Yes, 
to  be  sure,  where  is  Bertie  ?  I  rather  expected  to  have  met 
him  at  the  station." 

"  And  you  ought  to  have  met  him  at  the  station,"  answered 
her  father,  lys  frown  returning.  "  Whatever  else  a  man  may  be, 
he  shouldn't  be  laggard  in  love.  The  truth  is  he  has  gone  to 
New  York  to  see  his  college  friend,  young  Lord  Dearborn,  and 
something  must  have  detained  him.  However,  he  is  pretty  sure 
to  be  here  at  eight.  He  has  altered  as  much  as  you,  little  one, 
and  grown  a  fine,  manly,  handsome  lad." 

"  Bertie  was  always  nice-looking,"  said  Sydney,  in  a  patroniz- 
ing, elder-sister  sort  of  tone  ;  "only  too  fair — I  don't  admire 
very  fair  men.  Mamma,  is  dinner  ready  ?  I'm  famishing  ;  and 
please,  mamma,  tell  Katy  to  have  something  particularly  nice, 
for  life  has  been  supported  on  thin  bread  and  butter  and  weak 
tea  for  the  past  three  years." 

She  ran  off  to  her  own  room  to  remove  her  hat,  and  mamrra 
trotted  dutifully  away  to  see  after  the  commissariat.  Papa 
gazed  after  her  with  eyes  of  fond  delight. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  thought,  "my  pretty  little  one,  sweet  and 
innocent,  an''  heart  whole.  No  mawkish  blushing  or  senti'nen- 
tality  there.  Bertie  was  always  nice-looking,  but  too  fair.  Ha  ! 
ha !  I  hope  she  will  take  your  conceit  down  a  peg  or  two,  Mas- 
ter Bert." 

The  dining  room  of  Owenson  Place  was  like  all  the  rooms, 
Dearly  perfect  in  its  way,  hung  with  deep  crimson  and  gold 


9^  "A   LAGGARD  IN  LOVE." 

paper,  carpeted  wi.h  Axminster  of  deep  crimson  and  wood  tints, 
curtained  with  red  satin  brocatelle  and  lace.  Handsome  chro- 
nios  of  flowers  and  fruit,  of  startled  deer,  and  forest  streams  cov 
ered  the  walls.  A  huge  sideboard  of  old  Spanish  mahogany 
covered  with  dessert,  occupied  the  space  between  two  tall  win 
dows.  A  little  wood  fire  snapped  in  the  wide  steel  grate ; 
under  the  big  glittering  chandelier  in  the  centre  of  the  dinner- 
table  was  set  a  huge  epergne  of  autumn  flowers,  gorgeous  in  the 
centre.  And,  best  of  all,  there  were  raised  pies,  and  cold  ham, 
and  broiled  partridge,  and  chicken  fricassee,  and  ruby  and  golden 
jellies,  and  fruits,  and  sweets.  Sydney's  eyes  sparkled  as  she 
looked.  It  sounds  unromantic,  but  at  the  age  of  seventeen  it  is 
a  matter  of  history  that  Miss  Owenson's  heart  was  very  easily 
reached  through  her  palate. 

"  We  don't  have  regular  'dinners — roasts,  and  entrees  and  that, 
since  Bertie's  been  away,"  said  Mrs.  Owenson.  "  I  ordered  all 
the  things  you  used  to  like  best.  Papa  never  comes  down  to 
dinner  when  we  are  alone." 

"  Oh,  how  nice,"  cried  Sydney;  "how  good  it  seems  to  be 
home.  What  a  delicious  pie.  Nobody  makes  game  pies  like 
our  Katy,  bless  her  !  I  must  go  down  to  the  kitchen  directly 
and  give  her  a  hug.  Won't  you  have  something,  mamma  ?  Oh, 
how  i  wish  Cyrilla  were  here." 

"  Who's  Cyrilla,  my  love  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Owenson,  helping 
herself  to  partridge. 

Mrs.  Owenson  has  dined,  but  Mrs.  Owenson  is  one  of  those 
happy  exceptional  mortals  who  can  eat  with  ease  and  comfort 
at  all  times  and  seasons. 

"My  chum  at  school,  Cyrilla  Hendrick.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber telling  me  in  your  letter  that  papa  said  I  might  invite  her 
here,  as  bridemaid.  I  have,  and  papa  must  write  to  her  aunt 
immediately — to-night  or  to-morrow.  1  wish  Bertie  were  here," 
runs  on  Miss  Owenson,  going  vigorously  into  the  raised  pie. 

"  I'm  dying  to  see  him.  Is  he  really  handsome,  mamma,  and 
elegant,  and  all  that?" 

"  Really  handsome,  my  dear,"  responded  mamma,  "  and 
most  elegant.  His  clothes  fit  him  beautifully,  and  he's  so  particu- 
lar about  his  finger-nails,  and  his  teeth,  and  his  studs,  and  his 
sleeve-buttons,  and  his  neckties,  and  his  perfumes.  And  he  bows 
magnificently.  And  he  parts  his  hair  down  the  middle.  And 
he  is  raising  a  small  moustache.  It  is  so  light  yet  you  can  barely 
see  it,  but  1  diresay  it  will  come  out  quite  plain  after  you  are 
married.  And  he  is  going  to  ask  Lord  Dearborn  down  for  the 


"A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE"  97 

wedding,  which  will  give  everything  an  aristocratic  air,  you 
know.  And,  oh,  Sydney,  my  love  !  all  your  things  have  come, 
and  you  must  go  and  see  them  as  soon  as  you  have  dined.  The 
bridal  dress,  vail,  wreath,  and  pearls  are  expected  from  Paris  in 
the  steamer  next  week.  They  have  cost  a  little  fortune,  and 
will  be  really  splendid.  And  papa  has  fitted  up  three  rooms 
for  you  and  Bertie,  after  you  return  from  your  wedding-trip,  and 
they  are  splendid  also.  Your* papa  may  be  fractious,  Sydney, 
but  I  must  say  he  has  spared  no  expense  in  this.  There  never 
was  a  wedding  like  it  in  Wyckcliffe,  and  I  don't  believe  ever 
will  be  again.  The  papers  will  be  full  of  it,  you  mav 
depend." 

"  Dear,  generous  papa  !  "  Sydney  exclaimed.  "  Mamma,  you 
don't  think  him  worse,  do  you — not  really  worse  ?  His  heart 
beats  frightfully,  but " 

"  That  was  the  excitement,  my  dear.  He  will  excite  him- 
seli  over  trifle^  do  as  you  may,"  answers  placid  mamma. 

"  But  he  is  not  worse  ?  The  doctors  don't  say  he  is  worse, 
do  they  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  He  only  fancies  he  is.  They  tell  him  to 
avoid  excitement,  to  go  on  with  the  drops  as  before,  to  take 
gentle  carriage  exercise,  light  diet  and  wines,  and  he  rnay 
linger  ever  so  long.  Now,  have  you  finished,  my  dear?  because 
I  do  want  to  show  you  the  things." 

Sydney  had  finished,  and  putting  her  arm  around  mamma's 
waist  familiarly,  went  with  her  up-stairs.  The  bridal  apartments 
were  first  shown — sitting-room,  bedroom,  dressing-room,  all  in 
different  colors,  all  of  different  degrees  of  sumptuousness. 
Pretty  pictures,  gilded  books,  stands  of  music,  a  new  piano  and 
work-table,  knick-knacks,  pretty  trifles,  costing  hundreds  of 
dollars,  and  making  an  elegant  whole.  Everything  was  the  best 
and  rarest  money  could  buy. 

Sydney  went  into  raptures — school-girl  raptures ;  but  her 
color  came  and  went,  for  the  first  time.  For  the  first  time,  she 
was  beginning  to  realize  that  she  was  really  going  to  be  married. 
The  trousseau  was  displayed  next.  Dresses  of  silk,  black,  brown, 
blue,  pink,  white,  all  the  colors  that  blonde  girls  can  wear  : 
dresses  of  lace,  black  and  white  ;  dresses  of  materials  thick  and 
thin — all  beautifully  made  and  trimmed.  Then  heaps  of  linen, 
ruffled,  laced,  embroidered,  marked  with  the  letters  "  S.  V.  O." 
twisted  in  a  monogram — Sydney  Vaughan  Owenson. 

Gradually,  as  she  examined  and  admired,  silence  fell  upon 
her.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  overpowered ;  her  life  of  the 

5 


9?  "A   LAGGARD   IN  LOVE." 

past  and  present  seemed  closing  forever,  and  another,  of  which 
sli2  knew  nothing,  about  to  begin. 

A  sensation,  akin  to  dread  of  meeting  Bertie  Vaughan,  was 
inexplicably  stealing  over  her.  She  shook  it  off  indignantly. 
What  nonsense  !  Afraid  to  meet  Bertie  !  Bertie  with  whom 
she  had  quarrelled  and  made  up,  whose  ears  she  had  boxed 
scores  of  times,  whom  she  had  laughed  at  and  made  fun  of  for 
his  incipient  young-mannish  airs  years  ago — afraid  of  him  !  It 
was  all  very  fine,  and  must  have  cost  oceans  of  money,  still  she 
was  glad  when  the  sight-seeing  was  over  and  she  could  nestle  up 
to  her  father's  side  and  kiss  him  a  little,  silent,  grateful  kiss  oi 
thanks. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  all,  Mrs.  Vaughan  Owenson  ? "  he 
asked,  patting  the  cheek,  from  which  the  eager  flush  had  faded. 

"It  is  all  lovely — lovely.  Papa,  how  good  you  are  to  Bertie 
and  me  ! " 

"  You  are  all  I  have  to  be  good  to,  child,"  he  answered,  sadly. 
"  I,et  me  make  you  happy — I  ask  no  more.  You  think  you  will 
be  happy  with  our  boy,  don't  you,  pettie  ?  " 

"  I  like  Bertie  very  much,  papa." 

"  In  a  sisterly  way — eh,  my  dear  ?  Well,  that  is  a  very  good 
way — much  the  better  way,  in  a  little  girl  of  seventeen.  This 
time  next  year  he  will  be  something  more  than  a  brother  to  you. 
He  will  be  very  good  to  you,  that  I  know." 

"  It  is  not  in  Bertie  to  be  bad  to  any  one,  papa.  He  always 
had  a  gentle  heart." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  think  he  had.  There  may  be  nobler  quali- 
ties than  gentleness  and  softness,  but  we  don't  make  ourselves, 
and,  as  young  fellows  go,  Bertie  is  a  harmless  lad,  a  very  harm- 
less lad.  Be  a  good  wife,  Sydney,  and  don't  be  too  exacting — • 
men  are  mortal,  my  dear — the  best  of  'em  very  mortal.  Be 
happy  yourself,  and  make  your  husband  happy — it  is  all  I 
ask  on  earth." 

"  I'll  try,  papa,"  Sydney  sighs,  in  a  weary  way,  leaning 
against  his  chair,  "  but " 

"  But  I  wish  I  need  not  be  married  at  all.  I  wish  I  might 
just  live  on  as  I  used,  with  you  and  mamma,  and  have  Bertie 
for  my  brother.  It  is  very  tiresome  and  stupid  being  married, 
whether  one  will  or  no,  at  seventeen." 

That  is  what  she  would  have  liked  to  say,  but  an  instinctive 
conviction  that  it  would  displease  her  father  held  her  silent. 
"  But  what,  little  one  ?  "  he  asks. 
"  Nothing,  papa." 


"A  LAGGARD  IN  LOVE."  99 

There  is  silence  for  awhile.  The  gray,  cold  evening  is  falling 
over  wood  and  ocean  ;  a  star  or  two  glitters  in  the  sky.  Both 
sit  and  look  at  the  tremulous  beauty  of  these  frosty  stars.  Sud- 
denly Sydney  springs  to  her  feet. 

"  Papa,  I  would  like  to  go  and  see  Hetty.     May  I?" 

Hetty  was  once  Sydney's  nurse,  very  much  tyrannized  over, 
and  very  dearly  loved.  Hetty  was  married  now  and  living  in 
the  suburbs  of  the  town. 

Papa  glances  at  the  clock.  It  is  close  upon  seven,  drawing 
near  the  time  when  Master  Bertie  may  be  looked  for,  and  it 
will  do  him  no  harm  to  find  Miss  Owenson  has  not  thought  it 
worth  her  while  to  wait  for  him.  So  he  gives  a  cheerful  and 
immediate  assent. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  Hetty  is  a  good  creature,  a  very  good 
creature,  and  strongly  attached  to  us  all.  Take  Ellen  or  Katy, 
or  drive  over  if  you  like,  or  Perkins,  the  coachman,  will  attend 
you,  or " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  papa  !  "  laughs  Sydney.  "  I  don't  want  any  of 
them.  As  if  one  needed  an  escort  running  over  to  the  town  ! 
Besides,  I've  been  watched  and  looked  after  so  long  that  a 
scamper  for  once  on  my  own  account  will  be  delightful. 
May  I  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  dark  in  ten  minutes,  Syd.' 

"  I  will  be  at  Hetty's  in  ten  minutes,  and  she  will  come  back 
with  me  if  I  want  her.  P — please,  papa,  may  I  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  may  I,'  you  witch  ?  You  know  you  can 
do  as  you  like  with  me.  Run  away.  Wrap  up,  the  evenings 
are  chilly;  and  don't  stay  more  than  an  hour." 

"  Not  a  second.     Good-by,  papa  ;  au  revoir" 

She  ran  up  to  her  room,  tied  her  dainty  travelling  hat  over 
her  sunny  curls,  threw  a  new  and  brillant  scarlet  mantle  -  ^er 
her  shoulders,  and  in  the  steel-white,  steel-cold  set  off  foi  At 
walk. 


ioo     «  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HI!>    WOOING  HAS   COMR" 
CHAPTER  XII. 

:l  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO    HIS   WOOING   HAS    COME." 


otherwise  Mrs.  Simpson,  lived,  as  has  beer 
said,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  straggling  town  of  Wyck 
cliffe,  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  gates  of 
Owenson  Place,  supposing  you  took  the  high  road, 
Supposing  you  took  instead  the  short  cut,  skirting  the  sea-side, 
you  shortened  the  distance  by  half.  Both  were  perfectly  fa- 
miliar to  Miss  Owenson,  both  perfectly  safe,  and  without  delibe- 
rating about  it,  she  at  once  struck  into  the  "  short-cut,"  running 
along  the  high  rocky  ledge  skirting  the  sea. 

It  was  a  rough,  rock-bound  coast,  the  steep  rocks  beetling 
up  in  some  places  almost  perpendicularly,  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  feet.  The  steep  sides  were  overgrown  with  stunted 
spruce,  reedy  grasses,  and  wild,  flame-colored  blossoms  waved 
in  the  salt  wind.  A  wide  belt  of  yellow  sand  was  left  bare  at 
low  tide  ;  at  high  tide  the  big  booming  waves  washed  the  cliffs 
for  yards  up.  In  wild  weather  the  thunder  of  these  huge  Atlan- 
tic billows  could  be  heard  like  dull  cannonading  to  the  farthest 
end  of  the  town.  It  was  a  lonesome  path,  but  one  that  always 
had  a  fascination  for  Sydney,  as  far  back  as  she  could  remem- 
ber. To  lean  over  the  steep  top  of  "  Witch  Rock,"  the  highest 
point  of  all  these  high  crags,  and  look  sheer  down,  two  hundred 
feet  into  the  seething  waters  beneath,  had  ever  been  her  dan- 
gerous delight.  She  walked  along  now,  rather  slowly  and 
soberly  at  first,  thinking  in  her  childish  way,  how  prosy  and 
humdrum  it  was  to  be  married  in  this  manner,  the  very 
moment  one  left  school.  All  the  married  ladies  she  had  ever 
known  were  staid  and  grave  "  house-mothers,"  not  a  frisky 
matron  among  them  all.  Was  she  expected  to  be  a  solemn 
and  steady-going  house-mother  too?  It  was  a  little  too  bad  of 
papa  she  thought,  with  a  reproachful  sigh.  If  he  had  only  let 
her  have  a  good  time  first,  for  three  years  at  least  —  twenty 
is  old,  but  it  is  not  too  old,  after  all,  to  be  married.  She 
might  have  come  out,  had  a  winter  in  New  York,  another  in 
Washington,  a  trip  to  Europe,  and  a  couple  of  seasons  at  Sara- 
toga and  Newport.  But  of  course  poor  sick  papa  must  be 
obeyed  ;  so  with  another  heavy  sigh  the  little  bride-elect  put 
aside  nor  grievance,  and  wondered  where  Bertie  might  be  at 


« ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS  COME."      ioi 

that  particular  moment,  and  whether  he  really  would  be  at 
home  to-night  at  all.  It  was  satisfactory — very  satisfactory, 
Miss  Owenson  mused  gravely,  that  he  was  so  nice-looking,  and 
was  a  "clothes-wearing  man,"  and  was  fastidious,  as  mamma 
had  said,  about  his  nails,  and  teeth  and  sleeve-buttons.  Limi- 
ted as  her  knowledge  of  the  nobler  sex  had  been  she  had 
known  gentlemen — Colonel  Delamere  and  sundry  officers  of 
his  staff  notably  among  the  number — who  were  not. 

Miss  Owenson,  musing  thus,  over  the  serious  things  of  this 
very  serious  life,  continued  her  way,  as  you  have  been  told,  at 
first  slowly  and  soberly,  but  accelerating  her  pace  gradually, 
and  brightening  up.  It  was  so  good  to  be  at  home,  to  be  free 
from  school  discipline  ;  now  and  forever  done  with  lessons  and 
lectures.  It  was  such  an  exhilarating  night  too.  The  stars 
sparkled  brilliant  and  numberless.  There  was  no  moon,  but  a 
steely  radiance  shimmered  over  everything.  Down  below  the 
pretty  baby  waves  lapped  the  ribbed  sand,  and  the  great  ocean 
melted  blackly  away  into  the  sky.  She  paused,  leaning  over 
Witch  Cliff,  and  gazing  with  fascinated  eyes  at  that  illimitable 
stretch  of  black  water.  She  was  still  lingering  there,  when  there 
came  to  her  voices  and  footsteps  on  the  high  road  beyond.  She 
glanced  carelessly  over  her  shoulder — carelessly  at  first ;  then 
she  started  swiftly  upright,  and  looked  at  the  two  advancing, 
with  keen,  surprised  interest.  A  man  and  a  woman,  both  young, 
going  toward  the  town,  the  woman  an  utter  stranger,  but  the 
man — surely  the  man  looked  like  Bertie  Vaughan. 

She  caught  her  breath.  Could  it  be  Bertie.  It  was  his 
height,  his  walk,  his  general  air  and  look.  His  hat  was  pulled 
over  his  eyes,  and  in  that  light,  and  at  that  distance,  she  could 
not  discern  his  face.  His  head  was  bent  slightly  forward, 
moodily  as  it  seemed,  and  he  traced  figures  in  the  dust  with  his 
cane  as  he  walked.  His  companion,  a  small,  stylish-looking 
young  lady,  with  a  ringing  voice  and  laugh,  was  rallying  him  as 
she  leaned  upon  his  arm. 

"  That's  all  very  fine,"  Sydney  heard  her  say.  "Very  easy 
for  you  to  tell  me  you  only  went  to  see  a  friend  ;  but  how  am  I 
to  be  sure  it's  true  ?  I  know  you  men — deceitful  every  one  of 
you.  How  am  I  to  tell  you  hadn't  a  flirtation  on  hand  up 
there  ?  Only,  if  you  have " 

The  man  raised  his  head  and  answered  her,  but  in  too  sub- 
dued a  tone  for  that  answer  to  be  audible.  It  was  the  refined, 
the  educated  tc  ne  of  a  gentleman,  and  markedly  different  from 
hers. 


102     «<  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS   COME." 

She  laughed  again  at  his  reply,  whatever  it  was,  and  began  to 
sing,  in  a  low,  mellow  voice  : 

"It  is  good  to  be  merry  and  wise, 
It  is  good  to  be  loyal  and  true, 
It  is  good  to  be  off  with  the  old  love 
Before  you  are  on  with  the  new." 

The' last  words  were  faint  in  the  distance.  The  pair — lovers, 
it  would  seem — passed  out  of  view. 

And  Sydney  roused  herself,  her  heart  beating  in  the  most 

absurd  manner.  The  man  was  so  like  Bertie.  Could  it  be  ? 

Then  she  broke  off.  What  a  ridiculous  idea  !  Bertie  was 
doubtless  on  his  way  from  New  York,  and  she  was  idly  loiter- 
ing here  after  promising  papa  not  to  stay  a  moment  longer  than 
she  could  help.  She  hurried  on,  and  in  five  minutes  was  in 
.  Simpson's  cottage  and  in  Mrs.  Simpson's  arms. 

"  Bless  the  baby  !  "  her  nurse  cried,  a  buxom  woman  of  forty, 
the  pleasantest  of  faces  ;  "  how  she  is  grown  !  As  tall  as 
aer  mamma,  and  as  pretty  as  a  picture  !  " 

A  shower  of  kisses  wound  up  the  sentence. 

"  When  did  you  come  home  ?  "  Mrs.  Simpson  asked,  placing 
a.  chair  for  her  young  lady,  and  removing  her  hat. 

"About  two  hours  ago,  and  have  run  over  tc  see  you  the 
first  thing.  No,  thank  you,  Hetty,  I  won't  take  my  things  off. 
I  promised  papa  not  to  stay  but  a  minute." 

"Which  he's  been  that  worriting  about  your  coming,  Miss 
Sydney,  that  I  thought  he  would  have  gone  after  you  himself, 
sick  as  he  is.  And  now  your  home  and  going  to  be  married  to 
Master  Bertie  right  away.  Oh  !  my  dear,  darling  Miss  Sydney, 
I  hope  it  may  be  for  the  best." 

The  pleasant  face  clouded  a  little  as  she  said  it,  the  pleas- 
ant eyes  looked  with  wistful  affection  into  her  nursling's  face. 

"  Certainly  it  will  be  for  the  best,  Hetty,"  Sydney  responded, 
brightly,  and  yet  with  a  certain  reserve  in  her  tone  that  told 
Mrs.  Simpson  the  matter  was  not  to  be  discussed;  "and  you 
shall  have  a  brand-new  brown  silk — you  always  sighed  for  a 
yellow-brown  silk,  I  remember — to  dance  at  my  wedding.  How 
is  the  baby,  and  how  is  Mr.  Simpson,  and  how  are  you  getting 
on?" 

Mrs.  Simpson's  face  grew  absolutely  radiart.  The  baby  was 
well — bless  him  !  Miss  Sydney  must  see  him  at  once  ;  and  Simp- 
son was  well,  thank  you,  and  that  busy,  and  making  that  money, 
all  thanks  to  the  start  her  papa  had  given  him,  and  she  was  the 


"ALLAN-A-DALE    FO  HIS    WOOING  HAS   COME."    103 

happiest  and  thankfulest  woman  in  America,  with  not  a  want  in 
the  world. 

"Only  the  gold-brown  silk,"  laughed  Sydney;  "that's  a 
chronic  want,  isn't  it  ?  Let  me  see  the  baby,  and  then  I  must  be 
off." 

Mrs.  Simpson  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  moment  with  a  six- 
months'  old  ball  of  r"it,  rosy  and  sleepy,  in  her  arms,  trying  to 
rub  two  blinking  blue  eyes  with  two  absurd  little  fists. 

"  Oh  !  the  darling  ! ''  cries  Miss  Owenson,  jumping  up  and 
snatching  at  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  "  Oh,  oo  love  !  Oh,  oo 
ittle  pet-sy-wet-sy  !  "  Here  a  shower  of  kisses.  "  Oh,  oo  'ittle 
beauty  !  Hetty,  he's  splendid  !  What's  its  name  ?" 

"Which  we've  took  the  liberty  of  naming  him  after  your  par, 
Miss  Sydney,"  responded  the  blissful  mother  ;  "his name's  Regi- 
nald Algernon  Owenson  Simpson,  and  at  his  christening  your 
par  presented  him  with  a  silver  mug — a  real  silver  mug — and 
your  mar  with  a  lovely  coral  and  silver  bells." 

Sydney  had  all  a  true  girl's  maternal  instincts,  strong,  though 
dormant.  Baby  was  smothered  with  kisses,  which  naturally 
taking  baby's  breath  away,  Reginald  Algernon  Owenson  Simp- 
son opened  his  cherubic  mouth,  and  set  up  a  howl  that  made  his 
mother  spring  to  the  rescue. 

"  Poor  'ittle  pets,  did  I  scare  it  then  ?  "  cooed  Sydney,  pecking 
daintily  at  one  little  paw  ;  "  Aunty  Syd  shall  fetch  it  something 
pitty  next  time  she  tomes  !  Now  then,  Hetty,  I  really  must  not 
stay  another  minute.  I  ought  to  be  on  my  way  home  now,  but 
I  lingered  in  my  old  fashion  to  look  over  the  rocks, — you  rfe- 
member  ?" 

"  I  remember,  Miss  Sydney  ,  it  was  the  terror  of  my  life  that 
you  would  break  your  neck  over  Witch  Cliff.  Ah  !  that  path  isn't 
as  quiet  now  as  it  used  to  be  ;  they've  got  to  calling  it  Lover's 
Lane,  of  late.  All  them  factory  girls  and  their  young  men  go  a 
courting  along  that  way  Sunday  nights,  and  the  actors  and  ac- 
tresses at  other  times.  1  suppose  you  know  they  started  a 
theatre  over  in  Wyckcliffe  ?  " 

"No,  I  didn't  know  it.     Have  they  ?" 

"  Yes;  and  the  best  actress  of  them  all  boards  in  Brown's,  • 
next  cottage  to  this — Miss  Dolly  De  Courcy  she  calls  herself,  a 
fine,  fat,  black-eyed,  dressy  yoimg  woman,  with  more  young  men 
running  after  her  than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at." 

"Happy  Miss  De  Courcy !  Well,  good-by,  Hetty.  I'll  run 
over  to-morrow,  or  maybe  next  day.  Dood-by,  baby — div 
Aunt  Syd  one  more  tiss." 


104     "  ALLAN-A-DALE    TO  HIS    WOOING  HAS   COME." 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  babies  !  Ah  !  wait  until  you've  goi 
'em  of  your  own,"  says  Mrs.  Simpson,  prophetically,  at  which 
Sydney  laughs  and  blushes,  and  runs  out,  and  starts  more  briskly 
than  she  came  on  her  homeward  walk. 

She  encounters  no  one  this  time  ;  it  is  the  loneliest  walk  con- 
ceivable, but  she  does  not  feel  lonely.  She  sings  as  she  goes ; 
she  is  singing  as  she  enters  the  gates  of  The  Place,  singing,  as  it 
chances,  the  refrain  of  the  ballad  she  had  overheard,  half  an 
hour  before  : 

"It  is  good  to  be  off  with  the  old  love 
Before  you  are  on  with  the  new. " 

The  belated  moon  has  arisen  as  she  emerges  from  the 
shadowy  drive,  upon  the  broad  belt  of  sward  that  encircles 
the  house.  On  the  portico  steps  stands  a  tall,  dark  figure,  smok- 
ing a  cigar.  Her  heart  gives  a  quick  beat,  but  she  sings 
gayly  on. 

With  the  last  words  she  runs  up  the  steps  and  stands  beside 
him. 

He  has  not  offered  to  move — he  stands  coolly  waiting  for  her 
to  come  to  him. 

"  Bertie  ! "  she  exclaims,  her  frank  gladness  at  seeing  him  over- 
coming her  new  and  disagreeable  shyness,  and  she  holds  out 
both  hands. 

He  removes  his  cigar — holds  it  carefully  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  takes  the  two  proffered  hands  in  one  of  his,  bends 
forward  and  kisses  her. 

"  Ah  !  Syd.  I  thought  it  must  be  you.  How  cruel  of  you 
to  run  away  when  you  knew  I  was  coming  as  fast  as  steam 
would  bear  me.  Stand  off  and  let  me  look  at  you.  By  Jove  ! 
how  you  have  grown  and  how  pretty  ! " 

He  says  it  in  a  tone  of  admiration,  languid  but  real,  and 
Sydney  laughs,  remembering  it  is  the  twentieth  time  within  the 
last  four  hours  she  has  been  told  the  same.  With  that  laugh 
every  shade  of  embarrassment  vanishes.  After  all  it  is  only 
Bertie — the  old  Bertie — a  trifle  more  manly-looking,  but  as 
affected  and  nonsensical  as  ever. 

"  Certainly  after  all  your  efforts  to  improve  me,  could  I  do 
less  ?  And  you — I  don't  see  much  change  or  improvement  in 
you,  Bertie,  except  that  I  think  you  also  have  grown  !  "  Then 
she  pauses  and  regards  him  doubtfully.  "  Whe.i  did  you 
come  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Ten  minutes  ago,"  responds  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan,  "  and 


"ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS   COME."      105 

was  crushed  to  the  earth  by  the  announcement  that  you  hadn't 
waited.  Only  one  thing  could  have  enabled  me  to  bear  up 
under  the  blow — a  cigar.  May  I  goon  with  it?  It's  a  capital 
cigar — cost  fifty  cents  in  New  York,  and  you  must  own — you 
really  must,  sis,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  throw  it  away." 

"  A  sad  pity,"  says  Sydney,  gravely.  "  Pray,  don't  do  any- 
thing so  madly  extravagant,  Mr.  Vaughan.  You  came  ten 
minutes  ago,  did  you  ?  Hum-m !  that's  odd,  too." 

"  What's  odd  ?  My  getting  here  ten  minutes  ago  ?  Ex- 
plain." 

"  I  fancied — I  was  sure,  almost — that  I  met  you  about  half 
an  hour  ago  with  a  young  lady  on  your  arm." 

She  looks  keenly  at  him  as  she  speaks.  It  is  a  fortunate 
thing,  perhaps,  for  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan  that  the  newly -risen 
moon  does  not  shine  on  the  spot  where  he  stands.  He  has  the 
blondest  of  blonde  complexions,  and  it  reddens  like  a  girl's  as 
he  stoops  to  knock  the  ash,  with  care,  off  his  cherished  and  ex- 
pensive cigar. 

"  It  was  very  like  you,"  pursues  Sydney,  slowly  ;  "  the  hat, 
the  height,  the  walk,  the  gray  overcoat — I  could  have  sworn  it 
was  you,  Bert." 

"  Dangerous  thing  to  swear  rashly,"  says  Bertie,  with  that  af- 
fected drawl  that  always  exasperated  Sydney  ;  "  must  have  been 
my  wraith — have  heard  of  such  things.      May  have  been  my 
double,  and  I  may  be  going  to  die." 
,  "It  wasn't  you,  Bertie  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  I,  Sydney.  Your  own  common  sense  might  tell 
you  a  man  can't  be  in  two  places  at  once  ;  but  then,  common 
sense,  I  am  told,  is  not  one  of  the  sciences  taught  at  a  young 
ladies'  boarding-school." 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  Sydney  says,  abruptly. 

She  feels  disappointed,  she  doesn't  know  how,  or  in  what.  It 
begins  to  dawn  upon  her  dimly  that  Bertie  is  shallow  and  af- 
fected, weak  and  unstable.  The  idea  has  long  been  taking 
shape  in  her  mind  ;  as  she  looks  at  him  to-night,  languid  and 
nonchalant,  she  is  sure  of  it. 

They  go  in.  Captain  Owenson's  room  is  brilliantly  lit  with 
clusters  of  wax  lights.  Gas  may  illuminate  the  other  rooms — 
old  fashioned  tapers  shall  light  his.  Mrs.  Owenson  has  ex- 
changed the  tatting  for  a  novel,  and  sits  near  a  table,  reading. 
A  small  Broadwood  piano  that,  ten  years  ago,  came  from  Eng- 
land, stands  open  in  a  corner.  The  invalid  is  in  his  great 
chair,  holding  a  paper,  but  listening  for  his  daughter's  footstep* 


Jto6     " ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOIXG  HAS  COME" 

instead  of  reading.     As  she  enters,  Bertie  behind  her,  his  whole 
face  lights. 

"  Well,  puss,"  he  says,  "  you  are  back  safely  after  all.  Did 
you  come  and  go  alone  ?  " 

"  All  alone,  papa.  Who  was  it  said  :  '  I  am  never  less  alone 
than  when  alone  ?  '  It  was  my  case  to-night.  I  have  had  a 
surfeit  of  surveillance  during  the  past  three  years.  Freedom  is 
sweet." 

"  You  hear,  Bertie  ?  "  says  the  squire  ;  "  strong-minded  no 
tions,  eh  ?  She  lets  you  see  what's  in  store  for  you  betimes." 

"  Strong-minded  notions  are  very  pretty  from  pretty  lips," 
Mr.  Vaughan  answers,  and  he  gives  Sydney  the  most  thoroughly 
admiring  glance  he  has  given  her  yet. 

She  looks  brilliantly  well.  Her  walk  in  the  frosty  air  has 
flushed  her  cheeks  and  brightened  her  eyes.  She  stands  up- 
right and  slim,  her  scarlet  cloak  falling  back,  her  yellow-brown 
curls  falling  loosely  over  it,  the  coquettish  hat,  with  its  long 
plume  setting  off  the  fair,  star-like  face  beneath.  The  old 
sailor's  doting  eyes  linger  on  her. 

"  She  has  improved  in  her  dull  Canadian  school — don't 
you  think  so,  Bertie  ?  And  shot  up  like  a  bean  stalk,  little 
witch  ! " 

"  Improved  is  hardly  the  word,"  answers,  languidly,  Mr. 
Vaughan.  "  I  wouldn't  mind  going  there  myself,  for  a  year  or 
two,  if  they  would  turn  me  out  '  beautiful  forever,'  like  Syd." 

He  lays  himself  out  upon  the  nearest  sofa,  long  and  slender, 
and  very  handsome,  in  a  fair,  effeminate  way.  He  has  hair  in 
hue  and  silkiness  like  the  pale  tassels  of  the  corn,  large,  dreamy, 
light  blue  eyes,  a  faintly  sprouting  moustache,  and  a  Dundreary- 
ish  drawl.  A  "  Beauty-Man,"  beyond  dispute — a  Narcissus, 
hopelessly  in  love — with  himself. 

"  Play  us  something,  Syd,"  he  says.  "  I  pine  for  a  little 
music.  And  sing  us  a  song." 

She  sits  down  and  obeys.  She  plays  fairly  well,  and  sings 
very  nicely,  in  a  sweet  and  carefully-trained  voice,  and  is  duly 
praised  and  applauded. 

"Ah  !  you  should  hear  Cyrilla  Hendrick  sing,  Bertie  !"  she 
exclaims,  twirling  round  on  her  stool.  There's  a  voice  and  a 
player  if  you  like  !  By-the-by,  papa,  you're  to  write  to  her 
Aunt  Dormer,  and  ask  leave  for  Cy  to  come  here  and  be 
brides " 

She  stops  suddenly  short,  meeting  her  father's  knowing  smile, 
and  Bertie's  glance,  and  blushes  vividly.  Bertie  probably  under- 


"ALLAN-A-DALE    TC  HIS    WOOING  HAS   COME."       IO? 

stood,  and  the  blush  was  contagious,  for  he  too  reddened 
through  his  thin,  fair  skin. 

"  And  be  brides — oh  !  yes,  we  know  what  she's  to  be — eh, 
Bertie,  my  boy  ?  What  !  you  blushing  too  !  Bless  my  soul, 
what  a  bashful  pair.  Char,  shove  that  writing-case  over  this 
way — I'll  do  it  now.  Comes  of  a  very  good  family,  does  your 
friend,  Miss  Hendrick,  on  the  distaff  side.  Her  mother  was 
third  daughter  of  Sir  Humphrey  Vernon — ran  away — disin- 
herited— hum-m.  The  aunt,  Miss  Dormer,  very  wealthy  old 
lady,  engaged  once  to  nephew  of  the  Earl  of  Dunraith — 
hum-m- m.  'My  dear  Miss  Dormer.'  " 

The  letter  was  speedily  written,  folded,  and  sealed.  More 
music  followed,  more  talk.  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan  was  rather 
silent  through  it  all,  rather  tired  looking,  rather  bored,  and,  it 
might  be,  a  trifle  anxious.  Certainly  his  face  wore  anything  but 
the  expression  of  a  rapturous  lover.  He  lay  on  his  sofa,  pulled 
the  ears  of  Mrs.  Owenson's  favorite  pug,  Rixie,  and  watched 
Sydney  askance. 

Early  hours  were  kept  at  Owenson  Place.  Sydney,  accus- 
tomed to  going  to  bed  at  nine,  and  fatigued  with  her  journey,  was 
struggling  heroically  with  yawns  before  the  clock  struck  ten. 
The  striking  of  that  hour  was  the  signal  for  prayers.  The  ser- 
vants filed  in,  the  squire,  in  a  sonorous  bass  voice  led  the  exer- 
cises. Then  good-nights  were  said,  and  leaning  on  his  wife's  arm, 
Sydney  going  before,  the  master  of  the  house  started  for  his 
room. 

"  And  I  will  smoke  a  cigar  for  half  an  hour,  outside,"  said 
Mr.  Vaughan,  rising  leisurely.  "  Virtuous  as  I  am,  and  always 
have  been,  the  primitive  hours  of  this  establishment  are  a  height 
I  haven't  attained.  Good-night,  governor;  good-night,  Aunt 
Char  ;  good-night,  Syd." 

"  Sydney  must  cure  you  of  smoking  cigars  after  ten  o'clock," 
the  squire  answered,  good  humoredly.  "  Good-night  to  you, 
my  lad." 

"  Good-night,  Bertie,"  said  placid  Aunt  Char  ;  "  put  on  youi 
overcoat,  my  dear  boy,  and  tie  a  scarf  around  your  neck, 
or  even  your  pocket  handkerchief  will  do.  Consider  these 
fall  nights  are  chilly,  and  you  might  catch  a  cold  in  your 
head." 

"  By-by,  Bert ! "  laughed  Sydney,  flashing  a  mischievous 
glance  over  her  shoulder,  "  For  goodness  sake  don't  forgel 
to  tie  your  handkerchief  round  your  neck  lest  you  should  catch 
that  cold  in  your  poor,  dear  head.  Tell  him  to  put  on  over- 


108     « ALLAN-A-DALE    TO  HIS    WOOING  HAS   COME." 

shoes,  mamma — the  ground  my  be  damp — and  hadn't  Peikins 
better  hold  an  umbrella  over  him  to  keep  off  the  dew  ?  " 

She  ran  off,  her  mocking  laugh  coming  back  to  him,  and 
vanished  into  her  own  room.  And  Mr.  Vaughan  did  put  on  his 
overcoat,  and  button  it  up  carefully  to  the  throat,  before  going 
out  for  that  last  smoke.  It  might  be  fun  to  Syd,  but  Aunt  Chai 
was  right — he  would  take  proper  precautions  against  a  cold  in 
(the  head. 

He  lit  up,  and  walked  and  smoked,  a  reflective  frown  on  his 
face,  and  saw  the  lights  vanish  from  the  upper  windows.  Mr. 
Vaughan  was  doing  what  he  was  constitutionally  unfitted  for 
and  unused  to — thinking. 

"  She's  very  pretty — uncommonly  pretty,  some  fellows  might 
think  " — a  pause  and  a  puff — "  and  to  think  of  her  seeing  me 
to-night.  By  George  !  " 

He  looked  up  again — Sydney's  light  winked  and  went  out. 

"Yes,"  Bertie  mused,  ''she's  pretty,  and  she's  doosid  good 
style,  and  she's  an  heiress,  and  a  very  jolly  girl  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  but  still " 

He  seemed  unable  to  get  any  farther.  He  looked  uneasily 
up  at  the  house  once  more.  All  was  dark  and  quiet.  He 
pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  that.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
past  ten.  The  moon  was  shining  brilliantly  now,  silvering  woods, 
and  fields,  and  house.  His  eyes  went  slowly  over  the  silver-lit 
prospect. 

"  It's  all  hers,  every  inch  of  it,  and  mine  the  day  I  marry  her. 
I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  marrying  her.  It's  a  confounded 
muddle,  look  at  it  how  you  will.  Sometimes  I  wish — yes,  by 
George,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen " 

Once  more  he  abruptly  broke  off.  This  time  he  flung  away 
his  smoked-out  Havana  and  started  rapidly  for  the  gates.  They 
were  bolted,  and  a  huge  English  mastiff  stood  on  guard — very 
unnecessary  precautions  in  that  peaceful  place,  but  of  a  piece 
with  the  squire's  general  fussiness. 

"Here,  Trumps — quiet,  old  boy,"  he  said,  and  Trumps' 
hoarse  growl  rumbled  away  into  silence.  He  slid  the  bolts, 
opened  the  gate,  closed  it,  and  struck  at  once  into  the  rocky 
path  by  which  Sydney  had  come  and  gone  four  hours  before. 
He  met  no  one  until  he  left  it  and  took  the  first  street  leading 
into  the  town.  Here  all  was  quiet  too,  the  stores  closed,  a  few 
bar-rooms  alone  sending  their  fatal  light  abroad.  He  drew 
near  a  large  building,  at  whose  entrance  lamps  burned,  and 
from  which  strains  of  music  came.  Turning  an  angle  of  this 


"  ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS  COME."  109 

building,  he  came  upon  a  young  girl  standing  alone,  her  shawl 
wrapped  about  her,  her  back  against  a  dead  wall — evidently 
waiting. 

"Am  I  late,  Dolly  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Vaughan,  in  a  breathless 
tone.  "Awfully  sorry,  upon  my  honor,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
I  couldn't,  upon  my  word." 

He  drew  her  hand  under  his  arm  and  led  her  off,  bending 
down  affectionately  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  A  piquant 
face,  lit  with  bright  restless  eyes,  and  plump  as  an  apple.  There 
was  rouge  on  cheeks  and  lips,  and  powder,  thick  everywhere 
rouge  was  not,  but  the  face  he  looked  at  was  pretty  in  spite  of 
that,  with  a  certain  chic  and  dash. 

"Are  you  angry,  Dolly?  Upon  my  soul,  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  By  Jove,  Dolly,  I  couldn't." 

"  Angry  ?  Oh,  dear,  no  ! "  answered  Miss  Dolly,  with  a  flash 
of  her  dark  eyes — "  not  I,  Mr.  Vaughan  !  Only  when  a  young 
gentleman  tells  a  young  lady  he'll  meet  her  a  quarter  after  ten, 
and  doesn't  come  until  a  quarter  past  eleven,  it's  time  for  that 
young  lady  to  find  another  escort  home.  It  isn't  pleasant  wait- 
ing three-quarters  of  an  hour  out  in  the  cold,  and  I  won't  try  it 
on  again,  1  can  tell  you  that !" 

"Come,  now,  Dolly,  you  don't  mean  to  quarrel  with  me,  do 
you  ?  I  couldn't  stand  that.  I  told  you  I  positively  couldn't 
get  away,  and  I  couldn't.  There  was" — a  momentary  hesita- 
tion— "  a  visitor  at  the  house,  and  I  had  to  stay  and  do  the 
civil." 

"  A  young  lady,  Bertie  ?  "  asked  Dolly,  quickly,  with  a  sudden, 
swift,  jealous  change  of  tone. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  young  lady.  In  point  of  fact,  my — my  cousin — 
home  from  school." 

"  Your  cousin  !  You  never  told  me  you  had  a  cousin  before, 
Bertie." 

"  Didn't  I,  Doll  ?  Because  I  forget  everything  and  everybody, 
in  the  world  but  you,  I  suppose,  when  I  am  with  you." 

"  That  is  all  very  fine,"  says  Miss  Dolly,  whose  strong  point, 
evidently,  is  not  retort.  "  Is  she  pretty — this  cousin  ?  " 

"  '  Still  harping  on  my  daughter  ! '  "  laughs  Bertie.  "  Not 
at  .ill  my  dear.  A  skim-milk  school-girl,  pallid,  delicate  ;  no 
more  to  you  than  a  penny  candle  to  the  moon." 

"  And  then  she's  your  cousin,  besides,"  says  Miss  Dolly,  in 
a  musing  tone;  "and  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  fall  in  love  with 
your  cousin,  even  if  she  was  ever  so  pretty.  I've  heaid  Eng- 
lish people  are  like  that." 


1 10  « ALLAN-A-DALE   TO  HIS   WOOING  HAS   COME? 

"  Fall  in  love  with  my  cousin  !  ha,  ha  !  "  laughs  Bertie  again* 
"That's  a  good  joke.  Oh,  no,  Doll;  one  young  woman's 
enough  to  be  in  love  with  at  a  time." 

"And  that's  me,"  says  Dolly,  giving  his  arm  a  tender  little 
squeeze,  her  anger  totally  gone,  and  the  twain  walk  in  delight- 
ful silence  on  for  some  yards.  "  I  suppose  that  grumpy  old 
uncle  of  yours  wouldn't  consent  to  your  marrying  an  actress, 
though  ?"  the  girl  asks  again,  with  an  impatient  sigh. 

"  Well,  no,  Dolly,  I  am  afraid  he  wouldn't.  My  uncle  is  a  man 
of  tolerably  strong  prejudice,  and  tolerably  strong  selfishness.  I 
hate  selfish  people  !  "  says  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan,  savagely. 

"  He  would  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling,  I  suppose,  as  the  heavy 
fathers  do  in  the  pieces  ?  "  suggests  Dolly. 

"  Precisely,  cut  me  off  without  a  shilling  ;  and,  by  Jupiter, 
Doll,  I  haven't  a  penny,  no,  not  a  halfpenny,  but  what  the  old 
duffer  gives  me." 

"  Well,  you  could  go  on  the  stage,"  says  Dolly,  reassuringly. 
"  With  your  face,  and  your  figure,  and  your  aristocratic  air,  and 
your  education,  and  everything,  you'd  make  a  tip-top  walking 
gent." 

"Don't  say  'tip-top,'  Dolly,  and  don't  say  'gent,'"  corrects 
Mr.  Vaughan.  "  Yes,  there's  something  in  that.  I  could  go  on 
the  stage,  and  I  always  liked  the  life.  Well,  if  the  worse  comes 
to  the  worst,  who  knows  ? — I  may  don  the  sock  or  buskin. 
Meantime,  here  we  are  at  your  lodgings." 

"And  oh  !  by-the-by,  Bertie,  I  nearly  forgot  !"  cries  Dolly, 
keeping  fast  hold  of  his  arm.  "  We're  to  have  a  sailing  party 
over  to  Star  Island  to-morrow  afternoon,  after  rehearsal,  a  clam 
chowder,  a  dance,  and  a  good  time  generally.  I've  refused 
everybody,  because  I  wanted  to  go  with  you.  You'll  come? — 
half-past  one,  sharp." 

"  Really,  Dolly,  much  as  I  would  like  to,  I'm  afraid " 

"  What  !     You  won't  come  ?  " 

"I'm  afraid " 

"  You  must  stay  home  and  make  love  to  the  boarding-school 
cousin.  Oh,  I  see  it  all ! "  cries  Miss  Dolly,  in  bitterness  of 
spirit. 

"  Nonsense,  Dolly!  Make  love — nothing  of  the  sort;  only 
my  uncle " 

"  Oh  !  your  uncle,  of  course,"  cries  Dolly  again,  with  ever- 
increasing  bitterness.  "  Very  well,  Mr.  Vaughan  !  do  as  you 
please.  I  wouldn't  think  of  coaxing  you  for  the  world.  Only 
I  can  tell  Ben  Ward  I  take  back  my  refusal  and  will  go  witi 


" ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD."        Ill 

him.  I  hope  you'll  have  a  good  time  with  your  uncle  and 
cousin  !  "  The  sneering  scorn  with  which  the  actress  brings  out 
these  two  family  titles  is  not  to  be  described.  "  A  real  good 
time.  Good-night,  Mr.  Vaughan." 

Ben  Ward  is  the  riches-t  and  best-looking  young  mil.-owner 
in  Wyckcliffe,  and  Miss  Dolly  De  Courcy's  most  obedient 
humble  servant.  As  she  says  good-night  she  turns  to  go,  leave 
ing  him  standing  irresolute  at  the  gate.  She  is  half  way  to  the 
door,  when  he  lifts  his  head  and  calls  : 

"  I  say !  Look  here,  Dolly.  Don't  ask  Ward,  confound 
him.  It'll  be  all  right.  I'll  be  there." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  ALLAN-A-DALE    IS    NO    BARON   OR   LORD." 

T  is  the  morning  after,  half-past  eight,  and  breakfast 
time.  Out  of  doors,  yellow,  crisp,  sparkling  sunshine 
lies  over  land  and  sea ;  the  orange  and  scarlet  maples 
and  hemlock  glow  and  burn  like  jewels.  A  few  gor- 
geous dahlias  yet  lift  their  bold,  bright  heads,  where  all  the 
summer  flowers  are  dead  and  gone,  and  the  scarlet  clusters 
hang  from  the  rowan-trees  like  bunches  of  vivid  coral.  In- 
doors, the  breakfast-table  is  spread,  and  silver  and  china  and 
crystal  flash  back  the  sunlight  cheerily.  A.  *ire  snaps  on  the 
hearth,  and  makes  doubly  cozy  the  whole  room.  Around  the 
table  all  are  assembled — no  tardiness  at  meal-times  will  be 
tolerated  in  the  household  Squire  Owenson  rules.  Bertie 
Vaughan  looks  a  trifle  fagged  and  sleepy,  and  struggles  manfully 
not  to  gape  in  the  face  of  the  assembled  company.  Sydney, 
who  has  been  up  and  doing  since  half-past  six,  sits  down  with 
eyes  like  stars  and  cheeks  as  rosy  almost  as  the  clusters  of 
rowan  berries  in  her  lovely  loose  hair. 

"  Look  at  that  child  ?  "  says  the  squire,  his  whole  face  aglow 
with  the  love  and  delight  he  cannot  hide  ;  "  she  might  sit  for  a 
portrait  of  the  goddess  Hygea.  And  we  used  to  think  her  deli- 
cate !  Upon  my  word,  a  Canadian  boarding-school,  long  les- 
sons, and  short  commons  must  be  capital  things  for  health. 
Bertie,  my  lad,  what's  the  matter  with  you  thi?  morring? 


112       "AL',AN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD" 

Didn't  your  last  cigar  sit  well  last  night,  or  had  you  the  night- 
mare ?     You  look  rather  white  about  the  gills." 

"  Delicacy  is  my  normal  state,"  Mr.  Vaughan  answers,  lan- 
guidly. "  Aunt  Char,  I'll  trouble  you  for  another  steak  and  a 
second  help  of  those  very  excellent  fried  potatoes.  I  am  but  a 
fragile  blossom  at  best,  that  any  rude  wind  may  nip  in  the  bud. 
A  second  cup  of  coffee,  Aunt  Char,  if  you  please.  Really, 
Katy  is  a  cordon-bleu  ;  \  never  tasted  better  in  my  life." 

He  meets  Sydney's  laughing  eyes  with  pensive  gravity,  and 
the  squire  booms  out  a  great  laugh  in  high  good  humor. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  fragile  blossom,"  he  says,  "we 
will  try  if  change  of  air  won't  do  you  good.  Sydney,  I've  a  treat 
in  store  for  you.  One  hour  after  breakfast  let  all  be  ready  in 
their  very  best  rigging — the  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  and  we 
will  go  and  make  a  day  of  it  over  at  the  Sunderlands.  We'll 
see  if  we  can't  blow  the  wilted  roses  back  into  the  lily -like 
cheeks  of  our  fair,  fragile  Mr.  Vaughan." 

"  Oh,  how  nice  of  you,  papa  ! "  cries  out  Sydney,  in  her 
school-girl  way ;  "  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  Mamie  and  Susie 
Sunderland  again.  And  we  can  have  a  row  in  the  afternoon 
across  the  bay  to  Star  Island.  You  are  the  very  best  and  kind- 
est papa  that  ever  lived." 

"  Of  course,  of  course — best  of  men  and  fathers.  Hey,  Ber 
tie  what  do  you  say  ?  Confound  the  lad  !  he  looks  as  glum  as  if 
he  had  heard  his  death  sentence.  Say,  don't  you  want  to  go  ?  " 

The  flash  in  Squire  Owenson's  lion-like  eye  might  have 
intimidated  a  tolerably  strong  man.  A  strong  man — mentally, 
morally,  or  physically — Bertie  Vaughan  was  not.  His  tone 
was  deprecating  and  subdued  to  a  degree  when  he  spoke. 

"  Really,  sir,  nothing  would  give  me  more  pleasure,  but " 

"  Well  !  "  cried  the  old  martinet,  in  an  ominous  voice,  "  what  ? 
No  stammering — speak  out !  " 

"I  have  another  engagement — that  is  all.  I — I  might  break 
it,  of  course,"  says  Mr.  Vaughan,  rather  agha?t. 

"  Oh-h  !  You  might  break  it,  of  course  !  Then  will  you  have 
the  very  great  goodness,  Mr.  Albert  Vaughan,  to  break  it ! 
When  I  propose  a  pleasure  excursion  in  honor  of  my  daughter's 
arrival,  no  one  pleads  a  prior  engagement  in  my  house.  At  half- 
past  nine,  sharp,  young  man,  you  will  be  ready  !  " 

An  angry  flush  arose,  hot  and  red,  into  the  delicate  face  of 
Bertie  Vaughan.     He  set  his  lips  with  rather  a  sullen  air  and 
silently  on  with  his  breakfast. 

But  Sj  Jriey  came  bravely  to  the  rescue.     She  was  not  a  whit 


" ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD"         1 13 

in  a\ve  of  her  domineering,  tempestuous  father,  and,  naturally, 
had  twice  the  pluck  of  Master  Bertie. 

"But,  papa,  if  Bertie  really  has  an  engagement,  it  isn't  fair  to 
make  him  break  it.  When  he  made  it,  how  was  he  to  know 
you  would  propose  this  ?  Let  him  keep  his  engagement  what- 
ever it  is,  and  afterward  let  him  join  us.  I  am  sure  that  will  do 
every  bit  as  well." 

"Humph!"  growled  the  squire,  "you  are  taking  up  the 
cudgels  for  him,  are  you  ?  Well,  lad,  let  us  hear  what  this  won- 
derfully important  engagement  is  all  about,  and  if  it  really  is 
worth  noticing  we  will  let  you  off  duty.  Come — speak  up  !  " 

But  "  speak  up  "  was  the  last  thing  Bertie  could  do  on  that 
subject.  Good  Heaven  !  he  thought  his  blood  absolutely 
chilling,  if  this  fiery  old  sailor  really  knew.  A  lie  Mr. 
Vaughan  would  not  have  stuck  at  a  second,  but  he  was  no> 
quick-witted  enough  to  invent  a  lie.  So  there  was  but  one  waj 
out  of  the  dilemma. 

"  It  is  an  engagement  of  no  importance,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
that  sensitive  conscious  color  deepening  again  "only  a  trifle. 
I'm  sorry  I  mentioned  it  at  all." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Captain  Owenson,  curtly,  and  then  profound 
and  most  uncomfortable  silence  fell. 

"  Bertie  has  no  tact,"  Sydney  thought,  a  provoked  feeling 
rising  in  her  mind  against  her  good-looking  feeble  fiance.  "  It 
his  engagement  really  was  an  engagement,  why  didn't  he  keep 
it  through  thick  and  thin — papa  would  have  respected  him  for 
it,  even  if  it  did  cross  his  will.  If  it  was  only  a  trifle,  as  he 
says,  why  did  he  mention  it  at  all  ?  Now  he  has  spoiled  every- 
thing beforehand." 

The  meal  ended  with  a  sonorous  grace,  said  with  lowering 
brow  and  suppressed,  angry  intonation  by  the  master  of  the 
house.  Then  he  arose  and  glared  defiance  across  at  Bertie. 

"  Be  off  to  your  rooms  and  dress,  every  soul  of  you  ! "  he 
ordered,  in  what  Sydney  called  his  "  quarter-deck  voice,"  "  and 
woe  betide  that  one  who  is  two  minutes  later  than  half-past 
nine  ! " 

All  dispersed — Sydney  with  fun  in  her  eyes,  lingering  long 
enough  to  give  her  irate  father's  grizzled  mustache  an  audacious 
little  tweak  ;  Bertie  looking  pale  and  uneasy  ;  Mrs.  Owenson, 
slow,  sedate,  and  serene  under  her  fiery  lord's  wrath,  as  under 
all  sublunary  things. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  Bertie  thought,  biting  his  lip  and  get- 
ting himself  hurriedly  into  all  the  purple  and  fine  linen  the  law 


H4         "ALLAN- A- DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD" 

allows  his  soveieign  sex.  "  Dolly  will  raise  the  devil !  Yes,  by 
Jove,  she  will,  and  Ben  Ward  — hang  him  ! — will  cut  in  and 
have  everything  his  own  way.  The  mill  owning  cad  wants  to 
marry  her,  and  will  if  only  to  spite  me.  And  if  Sydney  insists 
on  going  over  to  Star  Island  in  the  afternoon,  as  she  will  be 
sure  to  do,  with  the  confounded  contrariness  of  her  kind — by 
Jove,  what  an  infernal  muddle  !  Ten  to  one  if  Dolly  sees  me 
there,  with  all  those  girls,  she  will  make  a  scene  on  the  spot. 
But  I  won't  go  to  Star  Island — no,  by  George  !  wild  horses  won't 
drag  me  to  the  that  beastly  little  twopenny-ha'-penny  island  !" 

But  what  should  he  do  ?  At  half-past  twelve  precisely  Dolly 
would  be  awaiting  him,  and  to  wait  for  any  human  being  sat 
as  illy  upon  the  imperious  little  actress  as  though  she  had  been 
Grand  Duchess  of  Gerolstein  in  her  own  right.  He  had  kept 
her  waiting  last  night,  and  with  this  added  she  would  never  for- 
give him — never.  She  would  go  off  in  dire  wrath,  and  breath- 
ing vengeance,  with  that  clod-hopping  mill-man,  Ward,  and  the 
odds  were  he  would  lose  her  forever.  To  lose  Dolly  De  Courcy 
was  to  Mr.  Vaughan's  mind,  this  morning,  about  the  bitterest 
earthly  loss  that  could  befall  him.  As  far  as  a  thoroughly  weak, 
thoroughly  selfish,  thoroughly  shallow  man  can  love  any  one, 
he  loved  this  black-eyed,  loud-voiced,  sharp-tongued,  plump, 
dashing,  daring,  sparkling  actress.  She  sang  the  most  auda- 
cious songs,  danced  the  most  audacious  dances,  played  the 
French  Spy  and  Mazeppa,  and  set  all  the  men  in  the  house 
crowing  and  clapping  over  her  most  audacious  double  entendres 
and  the  air  of  innocence  with  which  she  said  them.  Three 
weeks  ago  he  had  lost  his  head — on  the  first  night  indeed  on 
which  he  had  seen  her  at  the  little  Wyckclifife  theatre,  in  the 
dashing  role  of  Jack  Sheppard.  For  the  matter  of  that  a  dozen 
other  young  men  had  lost  their  heads  on  the  same  auspicious 
occasion,  but  among  them  all  the  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  aristo- 
cratic-looking young  English  gentleman  proved  conquering 
hero.  Pretty,  plump  Dolly  had  a  romantic,  if  rather  fickle  fancy, 
and  he  captivated  it.  Any  one  exactly  like  him,  with  his  slow 
trainante  voice,  his  soft,  languid  laugh,  his  gentle,  obsequious 
manner,  the  provincial  actress  had  never  met  before,  and  all 
the  rich  young  mill -men  had  been  nowhere  in  the  race.  They 
might  sneer  at  "  Miss  Vaughan's"  pretty  white  hands,  curling 
Hyperion  locks,  soft  little  mustache  like  the  callow  down  upon 
a  gosling's  back,  his  lavender  and  lemon  kids,  his  scented  and 
embroidered  handkerchiefs.  Miss  De  Courcy  liked  all  these 
elegant  and  patrician  things,  because  she  wasn't  used  to  them. 


"ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR   LORD."        115 

He  was  a  gentleman  pure  and  simple,  born  and  bred,  and  thai 
is  what  they  were  not  ;  plebeian,  uneducated,  and  ignorant  to 
the  core  herself,  Dolly  had  an  intense  admiration  of  these 
things  in  him.  In  point  of  fact,  Bertie  Vaughan  was  "  a  thing 
of  beauty  and  a  joy  forever"  in  her  eyes,  and  she  would  rather 
have  married  him,  to  use  her  own  forcible,  if  not  too  delicate 
expression,  "  without  a  shirt  to  his  back,"  than  Ben  Ward,  or 
Sam  Hecker,  or  any  mill-millionnaire  of  them  all  "hung  with 
diamonds."  She  took  his  bouquets,  and  his  costlier  presents, 
and  smiled  upon  him,  and  loved  him,  and  was  passionatelj 
jealous  of  every  look,  or  word,  or  smile  given  to  the  humbles! 
and  homeliest  of  her  sisterhood.  This  Bertie  knew.  How,  then, 
would  it  be  when  she  found  him  breaking  his  promise,  staying 
away  from  her  picnic  to  attend  another,  and  play  cavalier  ser- 
•vante  to  his  cousin  ! 

"  There  will  be  the  very  dickens  to  pay,"  groaned  poor  Ber- 
tie, "  and  sooner  or  later  the  whole  thing  will  blow  up  and  reach 
the  governor's  ears,  and  then " 

A  cold  thrill  ran  through  him,  he  could  not  pursue  the  hor 
rible  subject 

"  I'll  write  her  a  note  and  send  it  with  Murphy,"  he  thought, 
after  a  moment's  profound  cogitation.  "  It's  the  best  I  can  do 
• — the  only  thing  I  can  do.  Confound  the  governor  !  It's  the 
first  time  since  I've  known  him  such  a  frisky  idea  as  this  evei 
came  into  his  head,  and  to  think  of  his  pitching  upon  this  day 
of  all  days  !  Hang  it  all  !  " 

Mr.  Vaughan  completed  his  toilet,  in  a  greatly  perturbed 
state  of  mind,  "hanging"  and  "confounding"  things  and 
people  generally,  and  occasionally  using  even  stronger  anathe- 
mas. His  necktie  was  tied  at  last  to  his  satisfaction,  and  seiz- 
ing pen  and  paper  he  dashed  off  this  note  to  the  lady  of  his 
heart  : 

"DEAREST  DOLLY — :I  can't  go  to  the  picnic — don't  expect 
me  to-day.  Got  to  stay  on  duty  at  home.  I'm  awfully  sorry, 
but  1  can't  get  out  of  it.  Now  don't  fire  up,  there's  a  dear  girl. 
You  know  there  is  nowhere  in  the  world  I  would  as  soon  be  as 
by  your  side  ;  but  '  there  is  a  destiny  that  shapes  our  ends, 
rough  ' — as  some  fellow  says — '  hew  them  how  we  will.'  I'll  be 
with  you  to-morrow  after  rehearsal,  and  tell  you  all  about  it. 
And,  meantime,  I  am  yours — yours  only,  BERTIE. 

"  P.S. — Don't  flirt  with  Ward  or  Hecker,  that's  a  deai 
girl,  B.» 

Mr.  Vaughan  hastily  folded  and  sealed  this  eloquent  epistle, 


Il6       " ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD" 

and  went  off  in  search  of  "  Murphy."  Murphy  was  a  small  boy 
of  twelve,  and  errand-runner  in  general  to  the  household.  An 
understanding — strongly  cemented  by  dimes  and  quarters — had 
been  established  between  him  and  "  Masther  Bertie  ; "  and 
Murphy  alone,  perhaps  of  the  whole  family,  knew  how  his 
young  master  was  running  after  the  actress.  It  still  wanted  ten 
minutes  of  the  appointed  hour,  and  without  loss  of  time  Murphy 
,\vas  hunted  up. 

"  I  say,  Murphy ! "  called  Vaughan,  softly,  whistling  him 
aside,  "  I  want  you." 

"  Vis,  sur." 

"  I  want  you  to  deliver  this  note  before  twelve  o'clock,"  said 
Bertie,  slipping  the  note  and  the  customary  fee  into  the  young- 
ster's grimy  hand. 

Murphy's  grin  broadened.  He  could  not  read,  and  it  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  called  upon  as  letter-carrier ;  but 
he  understood  perfectly. 

"I  will,  sur.  It's  to  them  ye  know,  sur,  isn't  it?"  cried 
Murphy,  shutting  one  eye  and  cocking  up  the  other. 

"  It's  to  Miss  De  Courcy,  and  must  be  delivered  before 
twelve.  You  will  wait  for  an  answer;  and  mind,  Murphy,  not 
a  word  to  a  living  soul." 

"  Not  a  sowl,  sur,  livin'  or  dead  !  I'll  be  there  an'  back  in  a 
pig's  whisper,  sur.  Long  life  to  ye,  Mishter  Bertie  !" 

"  Hi  !  there — you,  Murphy.  'Old  the  'osses'  'eads,  will  yer  ?  " 
cried  out  Perkins,  the  cockney  coachman.  "  Beg  parding,  Mr. 
Bertie,  didn't  see  you,  sir,  but  the  hoff  'oss  is  a  bit  restive  and 
fresh  this  morning.  I  say,  Murphy  !  look  alive,  will  yer.  'Ere's 
the  squire." 

Murphy  held  the  frisky  off-wheeler,  and  Mr.  Perkins  mounted 
to  his  seat.  Squire  Owenson,  leaning  on  Sydney's  strong  young 
arm,  appeared,  Mrs.  Owenson  following.  Bertie  sprang  forward 
to  assist  him  in  ;  then  Mrs.  Owenson,  then  Sydney  ;  then  with 
one  parting  glance  of  intelligence  at  Murphy,  sprang  after. 
Perkins  cracked  his  whip  and  away  they  went  at  a  rattling  pace 
down  the  avenue. 

The  gloom  of  Bertie's  untoward  remark  still  hung  over  the 
horizon  of  the  squire.  His  Jove-like  front  lowered  portentously. 
Bertie  saw  it  and  fidgetted  rather  uneasily,  essayed  small  re- 
marks, and  looked  in  the  intervals  out  of  the  window.  But 
Sydney,  radiant  of  face  and  toilet,  set  herself  assiduously  to 
restore  sunshine  and  harmony.  She  talked  nonsense  and 
laughed  at  it,  made  small  jokes  and  laughed  at  them,  and  the 


"ALLAN A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD"        117 

laughter  was  infectious  if  the  humor  was  not.  By  the  time  they 
reached  the  Sunderlands',  general  geniality  had  been  restored  ; 
the  squire  smiled,  and  peace  reigned. 

A  lively  welcome  awaited  them.  Two  tall  daughters  and 
two  taller  sons  blessed  this  household — all  were  rejoiced  to  see 
Sydney  and  Bertie  ;  and  in  the  midst  of  laughter,  and  talk,  and 
good  fellowship,  young  Vaughan's  last  trace  of  uneasiness  van- 
ished— like  mist  before  the  sun.  He  was  one  of  those  people 
to  whom  it  is  a  sheer  physical  impossibility  to  be  unhappy  long ' 
— who  shake  off  all  thought  of  evil  to  come,  and  will  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry  to-day,  come  death  and  doom  to-morrow. 

The  young  men  smoked  cigars,  and  compared  notes  of  their 
doings  for  the  past  year— the  girls  played  the  piano,  and  did 
likewise.  Sydney's  approaching  marriage  was  discussed  in  all  its 
bearings,  and  the  Misses  Sunderland  were  invited  to  make  two  of 
the  five  bridesmaids  to  officate  upon  the  occasion.  Bertie's  good 
looks  and  Chesterfieldian  manners  were  rapturously  praised. 
Sydney's  improved  prettiness  eloquently  commented  on.  Then 
the  privy  council  became  general.  They  played  croquet, 
they  played  billiards,  and  did  both  with  such  gay  laughtei 
and  tumult  that  they  penetrated  even  to  the,  drawing-room, 
where  the  elders  sedately  sat,  raising  a  smile  to  their  sober 
faces. 

Star  Island  was  proposed  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  Bertie 
Vaughan  protested  against  it.  They  were  very  well  off  as  they 
were — he  always  believed  it  was  a  good  maxim  to  let  well 
enough  alone.  So  the  idea  was  given  up,  and  that  difficulty 
tided  over. 

"  Let  us  take  a  walk  on  the  beach,  then,"  said  Sydney,  who 
loved  the  sea ;  "  it  is  an  hour  now  till  dinner  time,  and  the 
water  does  look  so  calm  and  lovely." 

They  all  went  down — Sydney  and  the  Messrs.  Sunderland 
leading  the  way,  Bertie  and  the  Misses  Sunderland.  following. 
It  was  lovely  ;  the  soft  salt  waves  came  lapping  to  their  very 
feet,  a  faint  breeze  rippled  the  steely  surface  of  the  Atlantic, 
boats  floated  over  it  like  birds,  and  Star  Island  lay  like  a  green 
gem  in  its  blue  bosom.  The  elder  Mr.  Sunderland  had  brought 
a  telescope,  by  the  aid  of  which  the  revellers  could  be  seen 
making  merry  afar  off. 

"They're  the  theatre  people  from  Wyckcliffe,"  Mr.  Sunder- 
land said,  ad/usting  the  glass  for  Miss  Owenson,  "and  a  lot  of 
young  fellows  of  the  town.  That's  Dolly  De  Courcy's  scarlet 
shawl,  for  a  ducat,  and  that's  her  black  plume.  It  reminds  one 


Il8        « ALLAN-A-DALE  IS  NO  BARON  OR  LORD" 

of  the  man  in  the  poem — Dolly's  ostrich  feather  is  sure  to  be  in 
the  thickest  of  the  fun. 

"  And  'mid  the  thickest  carnage  blazed 
The  helmet  of  Navarre." 

"Who's  Dolly  De  Courcy?"  asked  Sydney;  and  Bertie 
Vaughan's  guilty  heart  gave  a  jump,  and  then  stood  still. 

"  Oh  !  a  pretty  black-eyed  actress  from  New  York.  Very 
jolly  little  girl — eh,  Vaughan?  You  know,"  laughed  Mr.  Sun- 
derland  the  elder. 

In  an  instant — how  Bertie  did  curse  his  fatal  complexion  in 
his  heart — the  red  tide  of  guilt  had  mounted  to  his  eyes.  Both 
the  Sunderlands  laughed,  a  malicious  laugh.  Sydney  looked 
surprised,  and  the  younger  Miss  Sunderland,  who  was  only  six- 
teen and  didn't  know  much,  said  : 

"  Law  !  look  how  Bertie's  blushing." 

"  I — I  know  Miss  De  Courcy — that  is,  slightly,"  said  Bertie, 
feeling  that  everybody  was  looking  at  him,  and  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  say  something.  At  which  answer  the  two  Mr.  Sun- 
derlands laughed  more  than  ever,  and  only  stopped  short  at  a 
warning  look  from  Miss  Sunderland  the  elder,  and  a  wondering 
one  from  Sydney. 

"  See  !  they're  going  home  ;  they're  putting  off  in  two  boats," 
cried  Miss  Susie  Sunderland,  holding  her  hand  over  one  eye, 
and  squinting  through  the  glass  with  the  other.  "  Oh,  I  can  see 
them  just  as  plain  !  one,  two,  three,  four,  oh  !  a  dozen  of  them. 
There's  the  red  shawl,  and  black  feather,  too,  and  there's  Ben  ! 
yes,  it  is,  Ben  Ward,  Mamie,  helping  her  in.  They've — they've 
sat  down,  and  oh  !  goodness,  he's  put  his  arm  around  her  waist ; 
he,  he,  he  !"  giggled  Miss  Susie. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  look,  Mamie  ?"  said  the  wicked 
elder  brother,  taking  the  glass  from  Susie  and  presenting  it  with 
much  politeness  to  his  elder  sister,  whose  turn  it  had  been  to 
redden  at  Susie's  words.  For  the  perfidious  Benjamin  Ward, 
Esquire,  had  been  "  paying  attention  "  to  Miss  Mamie  Sunder- 
land, very  markedly  indeed,  before  that  wicked  little  fisher  of 
men,  Dolly  De  Courcy,  had  come  along  to  demoralize  him. 

"  No,  thank   you,"    Miss    Sunderland  responded,    her    eyes 
slightly  flashing,  her  tone  slightly  acidulated ;  "  the  goings  on 
of  a  crowd  of  actors  and  actresses  don't  interest    me.      Mr 
Vaughan,  just  see  those  pretty  sea-anemones  ;  please  get  me 
some." 


«  ALLAN-A-DALE  75  NO  BARON  OR  LORD."          119 

Mr.  Vaughan  goes  for  the  sea-anemones  with  her,  and  Miss 
Mamie  becomes  absorbed  in  them,  suspiciously  absorbed,  in- 
deed, but  all  the  same  she  covertly  watches  that  coming  boat, 
with  bitterness  of  heart.  Alarm  is  mingled  with  Mr.  Vaughan's 
bitterness,  and  as  the  boat  draws  nearer  and  nearer,  he  rather 
nervously  proposes  that  they  shall  go  back  ;  the  wind  is  blowing 
chilly ;  Miss  Mamie  may  take  cold. 

"  I  never  take  cold,"  Miss  Mamie  answers,  shortly ;  "  I  pre- 
fer staying  here." 

So  they  stay,  and  the  boat  draws  nearer  and  nearer.  Syd- 
ney, with  an  interest  she  cannot  define,  watches  it  through  the 
glass  adjusted  upon  Harry  Sunderland's  shoulder.  They  have 
a  glass,  too  ;  the  gentleman  who  sits  beside  the  scarlet  shawl 
and  black  feather  fixes  it  for  his  companion,  and  she  gazes 
steadfastly  at  the  shore. 

Still  they  draw  nearer  and  nearer.  Does  Ben  Ward  do  it 
(he  is  steering)  with  malice  prepense?  They  come  within  five 
yards.  No  need  of  glasses  now.  Dolly  De  Courcy  is  sitting 
very  close  beside  Ben  Ward,  laughing  and  flirting,  and  she  looks 
straight  at  Bertie  Vaughan,  who  takes  off  his  hat,  and  never  sees 
him.  Mr.  Ward  elevates  his  chapeau  politely  to  the  Misses 
Sunderland,  which  salutation  Miss  Mamie,  with  freezing  dignity, 
returns. 

"  Pretty  Dolly  gave  you  the  cut  direct,  Vaughan,"  says  the 
elder  Sunderland,  enjoying  hugely  his  discomfiture.  Harry 
Sunderland  is  a  manly  fellow  himself,  and  has  a  thorough-going 
contempt  for  insipid  dandy  Bertie  ;  "  or  else  she  has  suddenly 
grown  short-sighted." 

But  Bertie  is  on  guard  now,  and  his  face  tells  nothing  as  Syd- 
ney wonderingly  looks  at  it.  For  she  has  recognized  the  hand- 
some, dark  girl  in  the  scarlet  shawl  as  the  same  she  encountered 
walking  late  last  evening  with  somebody  that  looked  so  suspici- 
ously like  Bertie. 

The  water  party  float  away  in  the  distance,  Miss  De  Courcy 
singing  one  of  her  high,  sweet  stage  songs  as  they  go.  As  it 
dies  out  into  the  sunset  distance  they  turn  as  by  one  accord, 
and  go  back  to  the  house  ;  two  of  the  group  thoroughly  out  of 
sorts  with  themselves  and  all  the  world.  Sydney,  too,  was 
rather  silent.  What  did  all  this  mean  ?  she  wondered.  Most 
obedient  to  hei  father,  she  was  most  willing  to  marry  Bertie 
Vaughan  to  please  him,  without  much  love  on  either  side.  Yet 
that  he  cared  for  her  as  much  as  she  did  for  him,  was  as  loyal  to 
her  as  she  was  to  him,  she  had  never  for  a  second  doubted. 


120  "MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS   EVER." 

But  now,  a  vague,  undefinable  feeling  of  wounded  pride  and 
distrust  has  arisen  within  her.  What  was  *hat  actress  with 
the  black,  bold  eyes  to  him  that  he  should  redden  and  pale 
at  the  very  sound  of  her  name  ? 

"  It  surely  was  Bertie  I  saw  walking  with  her  last  night,"  she 
thought,  more  and  more  perturbed.  "  I  will  ask  him  ;  he  shall 
tell  me  the  truth,  and  that  before  this  time  to-morrow  ! " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  MEN    WERE    DECEIVERS    EVER." 

|INNER  awaits  them.  It  wants  but  three  minutes  to 
the  hour  as  they  straggle  in,  and  Captain  Owenson  sits, 
watch  in  hand,  stormy  weather  threatening  in  his  eyes. 
The  signs  of  the  tempest  clear  away  as  they  enter,  and 
all  sit  down  to  the  festal  board.  And  still  through  all  the  cheery 
talk  and  laughter  Bertie  Vaughan  and  Mamie  Sunclerland  re- 
main silent  and  distrait,  victims  to  the  green-eyed  monster  in 
his  most  virulent  form,  the  image  of  Dolly  De  Courcy,  in  her 
scarlet  shawl  and  sable  plume,  upsetting  the  disgestion  of  both. 
"  And  I  really  think,  my  love,"  says  Mrs.  Owenson,  when 
they  arise  from  the  table,  "  that  we  ought  not  to  linger.  These 
fall  nights  are  cold,  and  you  know  the  doctors  all  warn  you 
against  exposing  yourself  to  cold." 

There  is  wisdom  in  the  speech  ;  and  though  on  principle 
Captain  Owenson  contradicts  pretty  much  everything  Mrs. 
Owenson  may  see  fit  to  say,  he  cannot  contradict  this.  So 
adieus  are  made,  and  the  Owenson  party  enter  their  carnage 
and  are  driven  home. 

It  is  a  perfect  autumnal  evening — blue,  frosty,  starlit,  clear. 
The  wind  sighing  fitfully  through  moaning  pine  woods,  the  surf 
thundering  dully  on  the  shore  below,  ring  dreamily  in  Sydney's 
ears  all  the  way.  She  leans  forward  out  of  the  window,  some- 
thing in  the  solemn  murmurous  beauty  of  the  night  filling  her 
heart  with  a  thrill  akin  to  pain  ;  and  still  that  dark  and  dashing 
actress  occupies  her  thoughts — and  the  more  she  thinks,  the 
more  convinced  she  is,  that  last  night  Bertie  was  her  companion. 
If  so,  he  has  told  her  a  deliberate  lie,  and  the  girl's  heart  con- 
tracts with  a  sudden  sharp  spasm  of  almost  physical  pain  and 


"MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER."  121 

terror.  If  he  has  been  false  here,  will  he  be  true  in  anything? 
All  her  life  Sydney  has  been  taught  to  look  upon  lying  with 
horror  and  repulsion. 

"  It  is  the  meanest  and  most  sneaking  of  all  cowardice,"  her 
blunt  and  fearless  old  father  had  said  to  her  a  hundred  times  ; 
'don't  ever  lie,  Sydney,  if  you  die  for  it." 

"  It  is  the  most  heinous  and  despicable  of  all  sins,"  her 
ghostly  directors  had  taught  the  child,  in  later  years.  "No 
goodness  can  dwell  in  an  untruthful  soul." 

And  now — was  Bertie  false  ?  Bertie,  whom  she  was  to  marry 
and  spend  all  her  life  with. 

"  I  ^ill  ask  him,"  she  kept  repeating ;  "  his  tongue  may 
speak  falsely,  but  his  face,  his  eyes,  will  tell  the  truth.  And  if 
there  is  anything  between  this  girl  and  him  " — she  stopped  and 
caught  her  breath  for  a  moment — "  then  I  will  never,  never  be 
his  wife." 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  but,  lying  back  in  his  corner,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  golden  head,  his  face  was  not  to  be 
seen. 

"  How  silent  you  young  people  are,"  the  squire  said,  at  last , 
"anything  wrong  with  you,  puss?  A  penny  for  your  thoughts, 
Bertie." 

There  was  a  momentary  brightening,  but  too  forced  to  last. 
Bertie  Vaughan's  thoughts  would  have  been  worth  much  more 
than  a  penny  to  his  questioner — they  were  solely  and  absorb- 
edly  of  Dolly.  He  must  see  her  to-night ;  impossible  to  wait 
until  to-morrow.  Ben  Ward  had  been  at  her  side  all  day  pouring 
nis  seductive  flatteries  into  her  ears,  offering,  very  likely,  to 
make  her  mistress  of  the  new  red-brick  mansion  over  in  Wyck- 
cliffe.  And  women  are  unstable,  and  gold,  and  offers  of  wed- 
ding rings,  have  their  charm.  He  had  nothing  to  offer  her  but 
his  handsome  blue  eyes  and  Raphael  face ;  he  had  never  even 
mentioned  wedding  rings  in  all  his  love-making.  Yes,  come 
what  might,  he  must  see  the  coquettish  Dolly  before  he  slept. 
It  was  half-past  ten  when  they  reached  The  Place,  and  the 
moon  was  beginning  to  silver  the  black  trees  around  ii 
The  squire  was  growling  uneasily  about  the  cold,  and  it  was  & 
relief  to  all  when  they  drew  up  on  the  front  steps,  and  Bertie 
and  Perkins  gave  each  an  arm  to  the  stiff  and  chill  old  sailor, 
and  helped  him  to  his  room. 

"  Are  you  going  out  again,  Bertie  ? "  Sydney  asked,  looking 
at  him  in  surprise  as  he  replaced  his  hat,  and  turned  to  leave  the 
house. 


122  "MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER." 

11  For  my  usual  nocturnal  prowl  and  smoke.  Couldn't  sleep 
without  it,  I  assure  you.  Run  away  to  bed,  sis,  and  good-night." 

He  left  the  house  and  made  straight  for  the  town  at  a  swing- 
ing pace.  It  was  almost  eleven  now — if  he  could  only  reach 
the  theatre  in  time  to  see  Dolly  leave. 

He  was  in  time.  Moonlight  and  lamplight  flooded  the  little 
square  in  front  of  the  play-house,  and  standing  himself  in  the 
shadow,  Bertie  saw  the  lady  of  his  love  come  forth  in  the  famous 
red  shawl  and  black  feather,  leaning  confidingly  on  the  arm  of 
Ben  Ward.  She  wa,s  in  the  highest  of  wild  high  spirits,  too,  her 
clear  laugh  and  loud  voice  mingling  with  the  deeper  tones  of 
his  rival. 

"  Awfully  late  to-night,  ain't  I  ?  "  he  heard  her  gayly  say  ;  "  I 
expect  you're  about  tired  to  death  waiting,  Ben." 

"  As  if  all  time  would  be  too  long  to  wait  for  you,  Dolly," 
responded,  gallantly  and  affectionately,  Mr.  Ben ;  and  the  lis- 
tener gnashed  his  teeth  as  he  listened.  It  had  come  to  this 
then — it  was  Ben  and  Dolly :  and  who  was  to  tell  him  it  was 
not  to  be  Ben  and  Dolly  all  their  lives. 

He  followed  in  their  wake,  keeping  out  of  sight  among  the 
shadows.  Keenly  sensitive  to  ridicule,  Bertie  would  not  for 
worlds  be  seen  in  the  ludicrous  role  of  jealous  lover  by  Ward. 
They  sauntered  very  slowly,  peals  of  laughter  telling  how  they 
were  enjoying  their  tete-a-tete.  They  reached  Dolly's  cottage- 
home  and  paused  at  the  gate.  In  the  shadow  of  some  trees 
across  the  moonlit  road  Vaughan  hid  and  glowered.  Mr.  Ward 
seemed  disposed  to  prolong  the  dialogue  even  here,  but  Miss 
De  Courcy,  with  a  loud  yawn  which  she  made  no  pretence  to 
hide,  declared  she  was  "  dead  beat,"  and  must  go  to  bed  right 
away. 

"  So  good-night,  Ben,"  cried  the  actress,  opening  the  gate 
and  holding  out  her  other  hand  ;  "  and  thanks,  ever  so  much, 
for  the  flowers,  and  the  ear-rings,  once  more." 

"  But  not  good-night  like  this,  Dolly,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ward, 
drawing  her  nearer,  and  stooping  his  head  ;  "  not  good-night 
with  a  cold  shake  hands,  surely?" 

»     But  the  gate  had  opened  and  shut  smartly,  and  Dolly,  on  the 
other  side,  had  eluded  the  embrace. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it !  There's  only  one  man  in  the  whole  uni- 
verse I  ever  mean  to  kiss,  and  he  isn't  you,  Mr.  Benjamin  Ward, 
I  can  tell  you  !  Good-night." 

"  Is  it  Bertie  Vaughan,  then,  I  wonder  ?  Pretty  Miss 
VaugUu— 'The  Fair  One  With  The  Gqldqn  Locks'  we  fellows 


"MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER.n  123 

call  him,  who  cut  you  to  day  to  court  his  cousin  ?  If  it's  that 
milk-sop,  Dolly,  I'm  surprised  at  your  taste  ;  upon  my  word 
and  honor,  I  am." 

"It's  no  business  of  yours,  Mr.  Ward,  who  it  is,"  cries  out 
Dolly,  her  black  eyes  snapping  in  the  moonlight ;  "it  isn't  you, 
anyhow,  be  sure  of  that.  And  if  you  think  your  ear-rings  are 
thrown  away,  I'll  give  'em  back  to  you.  It  shall  never  be  said 
that  Dolly  De  Courcy  took  any  man's  presents  under  false  pre- 
tences." 

"  Oh  !  d the   ear-rings  ? "  said    Mr.    Ward.     "  I   never 

thought  of  them,  and  you  know  it.  But,  seriously,  Doll,  I  think 
heaps  of  you ;  never  saw  a  girl  in  all  my  life  1  liked  so  well ; 
and  I'll  marry  you  any  day  you  like — so  there  !  Can  I  say 
fairer  than  that  ?  It's  no  use  your  thinking  of  Miss  Vaughan  ; 
it  isn't,  Dolly,  upon  my  soul.  He's  booked  for  his  cousin — she 
isn't  his  cousin,  by-the-by — and  has  been,  ever  since  he  left  off 
petticoats.  He  hasn't  got  a  red  but  what  the  old  man  will  give 
him ;  and  the  wedding  is  fixed  to  come  off  in  a  month.  He's 
spoony  on  you,  I  know,  Dolly,  but  he  can't  marry  you,  because 
he  hasn't  a  rap  to  live  on.  Now  think  over  all  this,  and  make 
up  your  mind  to  be  Mrs.  Ben  Ward,  because  you'll  never  get 
a  better  offer,  no,  by  George  !  while  your  name's  Dolly." 

"  Have  you  got  anything  more  to  say  ?  "  demanded  Miss  De 
Courcy,  standing  "at  gaze,"  and  with  anything  but  a  melt- 
ing expression,  as  Mr.  Ward  poured  forth  his  tender  wooing. 

"Well,  I  guess  not  at  present.     What  do  you  say,  Dolly  ?" 

"  I  say  good-night,  for  the  last  time,  and  go  home  and  go  to 
bed  ! "  snapped  Dolly  De  Courcy,  marching  with  a  majestic 
Lady  Macbeth  sort  of  stride  to  her  own  front  door. 

"  All  right,"  retorted  the  imperturbable  Ben.  "  Good-night, 
Dolly." 

But  Dolly  was  gone,  and  Mr.  Ward  laughed  a  little  laugh  to 
himself,  struck  a  match,  pulled  out  a  stumpy,  black  meer- 
schaum, lit  it,  and  went  on  his  homeward  way. 

"  It's  only  a  question  of  time,"  he  said  aloud,  glancing  up  at 
the  one  lighted  window  of  the  cottage  ;  "  she's  a  bewitching  little 
devil,  and  I'm  bound  to  make  her  Mrs.  W.  She's  soft  on  'The 
Fair  One,'  at  present,  but  she'll  get  over  that  He  must  marry 
little  Miss  Sydney,  and  then  Doll  will  have  me,  if  only  for 
spite.  ' 

As  he  strode  away,  out  from  the  dark  shadows  of  the  pines- 
stalked  Bertie,  pallid  and  ferocious  with  jealousy.  It  was  pre- 
'isely  like  one  of  Miss  De  Courcy*s  own  situations  on  the  stage. 


124  "MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER." 

"  Will  she  have  you  if  only  for  spite  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Vaughan 
between  his  teeth  in  most  approved  style  ;  "and  she's  soft  oil 
me  at  present,  is  she  !  Confounded  cad  !  I  wonder  I  didn't 
come  out  and  knock  him  down  there  and  then." 

Seeing  that  sinewy  Ben  Ward  could  have  taken  Bertie  by  the 
waist-band,  and  laid  him  low  in  the  kennel  any  moment  he 
liked,  perhaps  after  all  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at.  He 
opened  the  garden  gate,  flung  a  handful  of  loose  gravel  up  at 
the  lighted  panes,  and  waited.  There  was  a  momentary  pause  ; 
then  the  curtains  moved  about  an  inch  aside,  and  in  a  tone  of 
suppressed  fury  a  voice  demanded : 

"Is  that  you,  Ben  Ward ?  " 

"  No,  Dolly— it's  I— Bertie." 

Like  a  flash  the  muslin  curtain  was  swept  away,  and  Dolly's 
eager  face,  eager  and  glad,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts,  appeared. 

"  You,  Mr.  Vaughan  !  and  at  this  time  of  night !  May  I  ask 
what  this  insult  means?" 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Dolly !  You're  not  on  the  stage  now. 
Come  down — there's  a  darling  girl — I've  something  to  say  to 
you." 

"Mr.  Vaughan,  it  is  almost  twelve  o'clock — midnight !  And 
you  ask  me  to  come  down  !  What  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

"  The  dearest  girl  in  creation.  Come,  Dolly,  what's  the  use 
of  that  rubbish  ?" 

Miss  De  Courcy,  without  more  ado,  drops  the  curtain,  goes 
deliberately  down  stairs,  unlocks  the  door,  and  stands  in  the 
moonlight  before  her  lover. 

"  My  darling  !  "  He  makes  an  eager  step  forward,  but  with 
chilling  dignity  Miss  De  Courcy  waves  him  off. 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Vaughan!  I  know  what  you're  'my 
darlings'  are  worth.  If  I  told  you  my  opinion  of  you  this 
moment,  you  would  hardly  feel  flattered.  I  hope  you  enjoyed 
yourself  with  your  charming  cousin  to  day." 

The  withering  scorn  of  this  speech  could  only  have  been  done 
by  an  actress.  Miss  Dolly,  in  a  fine  stage  attitude,  stood  and 
looked  down  upon  Mr.  Vaughan. 

"  No,  Dolly,  I  didn't  enjoy  myself.  Was  it  likely,  with  you 
on  Star  Island  with  Ben  Ward  ?  I  had  to  go.  I  tried  to  get 
out  of  it — tried  my  best — and  failed.  1  can't  afford  to  offend 
my  uncle — that  is  the  truth — and  at  the  bare  mention  of  my 
having  an  engagement  he  flew  into  a  passion  ;  and  you  ought 
to  see  the  passions  he  can  fly  into.  No,  I  did  not  enjoy  myselfj 
but  I  had  to  go." 


"MEN  WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER"  125 

"  Oh-h  ! "  said  Miss  De  Courcy,  coldly.  "  I  always  thought 
you  were  a  grown  man,  not  a  little  boy,  to  be  ordered  about 
and  made  do  as  you  are  bid.  Since  you  are  so  afraid  of  this 
awful  Captain  Owenson,  then,  and  so  dependent  upon  him,  of 
course  the  moment  he  tells  you  to  marry  his  heiress  you'll  buy  a 
white  tie  and  go  and  do  it.  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  to 
me,  Mr.  Vaughan  ?  because  even  an  actress  may  have  a  repu- 
tation to  lose  if  seen  standing  here  with  you  after  midnight." 

She  turned  as  if  to  go — then  lingered.  For  he  stood  silent 
leaning  against  a  tree,  and  something  in  his  face  and  attitude 
touched  her. 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ? "  she  repeated,  holding 
the  door. 

"  No,  Dolly,  since  you  take  that  tone — nothing.  What  you 
say  is  tme — it  is  pitiful  in  a  fellow  of  twenty-one  to  be  ordered 
about  like  a  lad  of  twelve,  and  I  ought  to  have  held  out  and 
braved  the  old  man's  displeasure  and  gone  with  you.  I  have 
nothing  to  say  in  my  own  defence,  and  I  have  no  right  to  do 
anything  that  will  compromise  you  in  the  eyes  of  Ben  Ward. 
He's  rich  and  I'm  poor,  and  I  suppose  you'll  marry  him,  Dolly. 
I  have  no  right  to  say  anything,  but  it's  rather  hard." 

He  broke  off.  The  next  instant  impulsive  Dolly  was  down 
the  steps  and  by  his  side,  her  whole  heart  (and  it  was  as  honest 
and  true  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  its  way)  in  her  dark  shining 
eyes. 

"  No  right !  "  she  cried  out.  "  Oh,  Bertie  !  if  you  care  for 
me,  you  have  every  right !  " 

"  If  I  care  for  you  ! "  the  blue  eyes  look  eloquently  into  the 
black  ones  ;  "  do  you  doubt  that  too  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  Dolly,  doubt,  anger,  jealousy,  all  swept 
away  in  her  love  for  this  man.  "  You  do  like  me,  Bertie  !  Oh, 
I  know  that  !  You  do  like  me  better  than  her  ?  " 

"  Than  her  ?     Than  whom  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  you  know — I've  no  patience  to  talk  about  her,  your 
cousin,  the  heiress,  Miss  Owenson.  She's  sweetly  pretty,  too 
— but,  Bertie,  do  say  it ;  tell  me  the  real  truth,  you  do  like  me 
better  than  her  ?  " 

He  bends  down  his  handsome  face,  and  whispers  his  answer 
— an  answer  that  brings  the  swift  blood  into  the  dusk  cheeks 
of  the  actress,  and  a  wonderful  light  into  the  glittering  black 
eyes. 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  it  all  ?  "  she  breaks  out,  with  an  im- 
patient sigh.  "  You  are  afraid  of  her  father.  You  are  depen- 


126  "MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER." 

dent  on  him.  You  will  not  dare  offend  him,  and— you  wiL 
marry  her." 

"  No,  by  Jove  ! "  exclaims  Bertie.  "  I'll  marry  nobody  but 
you,  Dolly — that  I  swear.  If  I  lost  you,  if  you  married  Ward, 
I'd  blow  my  brains  out.  I  couldn't  live  without  you,  I  don't 
know  how  I  come  to  be  so  awfully  fond  of  you,  but  I  couldn't. 
And  I  wish  you  wouldn't  take  things  from  Ward  ;  ear-rings,  or 
flowers  even,  or  from  any  of  them.  You  belong  to  me,  and  I 
don't  like  it." 

"  Very  well,  Bertie,"  assents  Dolly,  with  a  long-drawn,  happy 
breath,  "I  won't.  I  don't  care  for  them  or  their  presents,  but 
I  was  mad  to  see  you  there  on  the  shore ;  and  then  Ben  Ward 
told  me  all  about  your  going  to  marry  Miss  Owenson,  and  the 
wedding  things  coming  from  Paris,  and  the  wedding  to  be  next 
month,  until  he  had  me  half  insane.  It  has  been  the  most 
miserable  evening  in  my  life." 

"  Indeed  !  No  one  would  have  thought  so  to  hear  you  and 
Ward  laugh." 

"  If  I  hadn't  laughed  I  would  have  cried,  and  actresses  can 
act  off  the  stage  as  well  as  on.  Oh,  Bertie  !  don't  deceive  me 
about  this.  I  love  you  so  well  that "  her  voice  actually  fal- 
tered, tears  actually  rose  to  her  hard  black  eyes. 

"  I  won't,  Dolly,  I  swear  it !  And  you — you're  very  exact- 
ing with  me,  but  how  am  I  to  know  how  many  lovers  you  have 
behind  in  New  York  ? — how  am  I  to  know  you  are  not  en- 
gaged even  to  some  fellow  there  ?  " 

It  was  a  random  shot,  but  it  struck  home.  In  the  moonlight 
he  saw  her  start  suddenly  and  turn  pale. 

"  Ha ! "  he  said,  "  it  is  true,  then  ?     You  are  engaged  ?  " 

"  Bertie,"  she  faltered,  "  I  don't  care  for  a  single  man  on  all 
the  earth  but  you  !  You  believe  that  ?  " 

"  But  you  are  engaged  in  New  York  ?" 

"Ye-e-s — that  is,  I  was.  But  I'll  write  and  break  it  off — I 
will  to-morrow  morning.  Bertie,  don't  look  like  that.  I  never 
really  cared  for  him,  he  was  too  fiery  and  tyrannical." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  Vaughan  gloomily  asked. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  his  name?  I'll  never  see  bin 
again  if  I  can  help  it.  I'll  write  and  end  it  all  to-morrow. 
Come,  Bertie,  don't  look  so  cross ;  after  all,  it  only  makes  ua 
even." 

"  Yes,  it  only  makes  us  even,"  he  repeated,  rather  bitterly ; 
"  even  in  duplicity  and  dishonor.  I'm  a  villain  and  a  fool  too, 
I  dare  say,  in  this  business,  but  I'll  see  it  to  the  end  for  all  that.' 


"MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER."  12? 

"  A  villain  and  a  fool  for  caring  for  me,  no  doubt, '  the  ac- 
tress retorts,  angrily. 

"  Yes,  Doll ;  but  I  do  care  for  you,  you  see,  and  I  have 
never  refused  myself  anything  I  cared  for,  and  don't  mean  to 
begin  now.  So  I  shall  marry  you — how  or  when  I  don't  quite 
know  yet,  but  I  mean  to  marry  you,  and  you  only." 

She  nestles  close  to  him,  and  there  is  silence.  The  pale  blue 
moonlight,  the  whispering  wind,  the  rustling  trees,  nothing  else 
to  see  or  hear. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  all  this  sooner?"  the  girl  asks  at 
length.  "  Why  did  you  leave  it  to  Ben  Ward  ?  Even  last  night 
you  deceived  me — making  me  think  she  was  a  little  ugly 
school-girl." 

"Why  didn't  you  teVl  me  about  the  man  in  New  York? 
Why  hadn't  you  told  him  about  me  ?  It  won't  do  for  you  and 
me  to  throw  stones  at  each  other — we  have  both  been  living  in 
glass  houses.  Let  us  cry  quits,  Dolly,  and  bury  the  hatchet. 
You  know  all  now.  You  believe  I  love  you,  and  mean  to  marry 
you,  and  not  Miss  Owenson,  and  that,  I  take  it,  is  the  mairi 
point." 

"  But,  Bertie,  this  can't  go  on  long.  She  expects  you  to 
rnarry  her  next  month." 

"Her  father  does — she  doesn't.  She  would  very  much  rather 
not  marry  me  at  all.  And  next  month  isn't  this.  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  the  evil  thereof." 

Unconsciously  to  himself  Bertie  Vaughan  was  a  profound 
fatalist,  letting  his  life  drift  on,  a  firm  believer  in  the  "  Some- 
thing-will-turn-up"  doctrine. 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  the  governor's  life  hangs  on  a 
thread — on  a  hair.  At  any  moment  it  may  end.  His  will  is 
made,  and  I  am  handsomely  remembered  in  it.  He  may  die 
suddenly  before  the  wedding-day — in  which  case  a  comfortable 
competence  will  be  mine  for  life.  The  moment  he  finds  out 
this  he  will  destroy  that  will,  turn  me  out,  and  disinherit  me. 
Have  I  not  reason  enough  for  silence?  Just  let  things  drift  on, 
Dolly — it  will  do  no  harm  ;  and  if,  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding- 
day,  he  is  still  alive,  then  I  will  throw  up  the  sponge  to  fate, 
run  away  with  you,  turn  actor  or  crossing-sweeper,  and  live 
happy  ever  after.  There  is  the  programme." 

He  paused.  Dolly  De  Dourcy  stood  silent,  her  keen  black 
eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  upon  him.  How  selfish,  how  craven, 
how  utterly  without  heart,  generosity,  honor,  gratitude,  this  man 
she  loved  was  !  this  man  who  looked  like  a  young  Apollo  here 


128  "MEN   WERE  DECEIVERS  EVER." 

in  the  moon  rays.  False  to  the  core,  how  could  she  expect 
him  to  be  true  to  her?  Unstable  as  water,  would  not  the  love 
of  wealth  prove  the  stronger  love  in  the  end  ?  Might  he  not 
play  her  false,  and  marry  Captain  Owenson's  fair  young  heiress 
after  all  ? 

"  No  !  "  Dolly  cried,  inwardly  ;  "  that  he  shall  not !  I  have 
his  letters — I  will  go  to  Owenson  Place,  and  show  them  to  this 
haughty  Englishman  and  his  daughter  first.  He  shall  never 
j  play  fast  and  loose  with  me." 

"  And  now,  darling,  I  must  be  off,"  Vaughan  said,  looking 
at  his  watch.  "  Ye  gods  !  half-past  one.  Farewell,  Dolly  ; 
remember  !  no  more  flirtations  with  Ward.  Give  him  his  ear- 
ringsand  his  conge  to-morrow." 

"  I'll  keep  the  ear-rings,  but  I'll  give  him  his  conge"  replied 
prudent  Dolly.  "  Good-night,  Bertie.  Be  as  false  as  you  like 
to  all  the  rest  of  the  worle  but  be  true  to  me." 

"  Loyal  je  serai  durant  ma  vie  !  "  laughs  Bertie  Vaughan, 
and  then  he  is  through  the  little  garden  gate  and  away.  Dolly 
stands  and  watches  the  slender  figure  of  her  lover  out  of  sight, 
then  turns. 

"  Faithful  unto  death,"  she  says  to  herself.  "  Yes,  you  will 
be  that  to  me,  for  I  shall  make  you." 

The  clocks  of  Wyckclifife  were  striking  two  as  Vaughan  came 
in  sight  of  his  home.  To  his  surprise  a  light  burned  in  Cap- 
tain Owenson's  chamber,  and  figures  flitted  to  and  fro.  He 
stopped ;  a  sudden  thought — shall  it  be  said,  hope  !  sending  the 
blood  to  his  face.  Was  the  squire  sick,  was  he — dead  ?  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  unlighted.  Perhaps  his  absence  had  not 
been  discovered.  He  softly  inserted  his  latch-key  and  opened 
the  door.  All  was  darkness.  He  closed  it  and  stepped  in. 
As  he  did  so  a  light  appeared  on  the  upper  landing,  and  some 
one  lightly  and  swiftly  began  descending  the  stairs. 

"  Perkins,  is  that  you  ?"  the  soft  voice  of  Sydney  asked. 

There  was  no  reply.  She  descended  two  or  three  more 
stairs  lamp  in  hand,  wrapped  in  a  white  dressing-gown,  her  yel- 
low hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders  and  came  face  to  face 
with  Bertie  Vaughan. 


"  TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER '.»  129 

CHAPTER  XV. 

"TO    ONE   THING   CONSTANT   NEVER." 

|HERE  was  an  instant's  pause — both  stood  and  looked 
each  other  full  in  the  eyes.     Then  Sydney  spoke. 
"  You,  Bertie  ?  "  she  said,  in  slow  wonder. 
"  I,  sis,"    he  answered,  lightly.     "  I  have  been  to 
Wychcliffe.     The  engagement  I  had  to  break  this  morning  I 
kept  to-night.     But  what  is  the  matter  ?   Your  father " 

"  Has  been  taken  suddenly  ill — a  sort  of  ague.  He  must 
have  got  thoroughly  chilled  on  our  way  home.  Oh  !  I  wish  we 
had  not  gone  at  all.  Perkins  is  away  for  Dr.  Howard.  Ah  I 
here  he  is  now." 

The  doctor  entered  with  the  coachman,  and  went  straight  to 
his  patient's  room.  Sydney  and  Bertie  waited  outside,  both 
silent,  both  pale  and  anxious,  though  from  very  different  causes. 
If  the  old  man  died,  the  young  man  thought,  with  his  will  un- 
altered, his  course  lay  straight  before  him.  He  would  marry 
Dolly  out  of  hand,  and  go  off  with  her  to  New  York.  There 
would  be  a  nine  days'  scandal — Sydney  would  despise  him — he 
winced  at  the  thought — but  otherwise  she  would  not  care.  And 
in  two  or  three  years  some  lucky  fellow  would  win  her  heart  and 
become  master  of  Owenson  Place.  A  pang  of  jealousy  and 
envy  shot  through  him  as  he  thought  it.  He  was  prepared  to 
resign  both  himself,  but  all  the  same,  the  idea  of  that  other  who 
would  profit  by  his  folly  was  unbearable  to  him. 

Presently  the  chamber  door  opened  and  Doctor  Howard 
came  out,  looking  jolly  and  at  ease.  Sydney  sprang  up  and  ran 
toward  him. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,  it's  all  right,"  the  old  doctor  said, 
patting  the  cold  little  hands  she  held  out  to  him ;  "  papa  won't 
leave  us  yet  awhile.  He  thinks  he  will,  but,  bless  you,  we 
know  better.  If  he  keeps  quiet,  he's  good  for  a  dozen  years  yet. 
'Now,  just  run  in  and  kiss  him  good-night,  and  then  away  to  bed. 
Those  pretty  eyes  are  too  bright  to  be  dimmed  by  late  hours. 
Ah,  Mr.  Bertie,  good-morning  to  you,  sir." 

Sydney  shot  off  like  an  arrow,  and   Bertie  went  slowly,  and 

with  a  disgusted  feeling,  to  bed.    "  Good  for  a  dozen  years  yet  !  " 

Oh,   no  doubt,  no  doubt  at  all.     It    is  in  the  nature   of  rich 

fathers,  and  uncles,  and  guardians  to  hang  to  the  attenuated 

6* 


13°  "  TO   ONE   THING  CONSTANT  NEVER." 

thread  of  life,  Avhen  they  and  everybody  connected  with  there 
would  be  much  more  comfortable  if  they  went  quietly  to  their 
graves. 

"  No  fear  of  his  going  toes  up  before  the  wedding-day," 
thought  Mr.  Vaughan,  bitterly.  "  He'll  tough  it  out,  as  old 
Howard  says,  to  dandle  his  grandsons,  I've  no  doubt.  And 
then  there's  nothing  left  for  me  but  the  '  all-for-love  and  the 
world-well-lost '  sort  of  thing.  By  Jove,  Dolly  will  have 
to  work  for  me  as  well  as  for  herself  when  I  make  her  Mrs. 
Vaughan ." 

Next  day,  by  noon,  Squire  Owenson  was  able  to  descend  to 
luncheon.  A  letter  from  Montreal,  in  a  stiff,  wiry  hand,  lay 
beside  his  plate.  It  was  from  Miss  Phillis  Dormer,  and  con- 
tained a  gracious  assent  to  the  visit  of  her  niece,  Cyrilla. 
That  same  evening  brought  a  note  from  Cyrilla  herself  to  Syd- 
ney : 

«  pETITE  ST.  JACQUES,  Nov.  8th. 

"  DEAREST  SYD  : — It  is  all  arranged.  Aunt  Phil  cheerfully 
consents,  and  has  actually  (who  says  the  days  of  miracles  are 
past  ?)  sent  me  ten  pounds  to  buy  my  bridesmaid's  dress. 
Three  days  from  this  I  will  be  with  you  on  unlimited  leave  of 
absence.  In  haste  (class-bell  is  ringing),  but,  as  ever,  devotedly 
yours,  CYRILLA." 

Two  days  before,  Sydney  would  have  danced  with  delight,  but 
now  she  read  this  note,  her  color  rising,  a  look  of  undefined 
trouble  on  her  face.  Everything  seemed  settled — her  trous- 
seau had  come,  the  very  bridal  veil  and  wreath  were  up-stairs. 
Cyrilla  was  coming  to  be  bridesmaid,  and  Bertie  had  never  spoken 
one  word.  She  glanced  across  the  table — they  were  at  dinner 
— to  where  he  sat  trifling  with  a  chicken-wing  and  tasting,  with 
epicurean  relish,  his  glass  of  Sillery.  Was  she  worth  so  little, 
then,  that  she  was  not  even  worth  the  asking  ?  Less  vanity  a 
pretty  girl  could  hardly  have  than  Sydney,  but  a  sharp,  morti- 
fied pang  of  wounded  feeling  went  through  her  now  as  she 
looked  at  him — cool,  careless,  unconcerned. 

"  Papa  forces  me  upon  him,  and  he  ta.kes  me  because  he 
cannot  well  help  himself."  she  thought.  "  He  is  in  love  with 
that  dark-eyed  actress,  and  he  will  marry  rne  and  be  miserable 
all  his  life.  Oh  !  if  papa  had  only  let  us  alone,  and  never  at- 
tempted this  match-making !  " 


«  TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT    NEVER."  13! 

""Bad  news,  puss?"  her  father  asked.  "You  look  forlorn. 
What's  the  matter,  little  one  ?  Let  me  see  the  letter." 

She  hesitated  a  moment — then  passed  it  over  td  him  reluc- 
tantly, and  the  squire,  adjusting  his  double  eye-glass,  read  it 
sonorously  aloud.  Sydney's  eyes  never  left  the  plate,  her 
cheeks  tingled  ;  Bertie  sat,  an  indifferent  auditor,  his  whole  at- 
tention absorbed  by  his  champagne. 

Squire  Owenson  laid  down  the  letter  and  looked  at  his 
daughter  through  his  glasses. 

"Well,  petite,  that's  all  right,  isn't  it?  She'll  be  here  in 
three  days — two  more  ;  and  you  and  Bertie  shall  meet  her  at 
the  station.  What' s  that  troubled  look  for,  then  ?  You're  fond 
of  this  young  lady,  are  you  not  ? 

"  Yes,  papa,  very  fond.     Dear  old  Cy ! " 

"Then  what  is  it?  It  isn't  that  you're  afraid  she'll  make 
love  to  Bertie — hey  ?  and  are  jealous  beforehand  ?" 

But  Sydney  had  finished  her  dessert,  and  jumped  up  abruptly 
and  ran  away.  It  was  little  short  of  maddening  to  see  Bertie 
sit  there,  that  languid  smile  of  his  just  dawning,  and  feel  all  the 
cool,  self-assured,  almost  insolent  indifference  with  which  he 
took  her  without  the  asking. 

The  two  days  passed.  Bertie  spent  a  great  deal  of  his  time 
away  from  The  Place,  doing  home  duty  at  stated  intervals, 
when  it  was  impossible  to  shirk  it  without  arousing  the  quick 
suspicions  of  the  "governor."  He  drove  Sydney  and  her 
mother  along  the  country  roads  together,  he  rode  out  twice 
with  Sydney  alone,  but  that  conversation  had  not  taken  place  ; 
the  explanation  Miss  Owenson  meant  to  have  she  had  not  had 
as  yet.  It  was  one  thing  to  resolve  to  ask  Bertie  whether  or 
no  he  was  in  love  with  the  actress,  to  tax  him  indirectly  with 
falsehood,  and  another  thing  to  do  it.  Bertie  Vaughan,  her  old 
comrade  and  playfellow,  was  a  man — "a  gentleman  growed," 
as  Pegotty  says,  and  every  instinct  of  her  womanhood  shrank 
from  broaching  the  subject.  It  was  for  him  to  speak,  for  her  to 
refuse  or  accept,  as  she  saw  fit.  He  never  did  speak — never 
came  within  miles  of  the  subject,  avoided  it,  ignored  it  utterly, 
as  the  girl  could  hardly  fail  to  see.  And  so  the  day  and  the 
hour  of  Cyrilla's  arrival  came,  and  matters  matrimonial  were  in 
statu  quo. 

It  was  a  gloomy  November  afternoon,  "  ending  on  snaw,' 
sky  and  atmosphere  sfeel  gray  alike,  a  wild,  long  blast  rattled 
the  trees  and  sent  the  dead  leaves  in  whirls  before  it.  A  few 
feathery  flakes  were  drifting  through  the  sullen  air,  giving 


132  TO   ONE    THING    CONSTANT    NEITER. 

promise   of  the  first   snow-storm   of  the    season   before   mio 
night. 

The  train  came  thundering  into  the  lighted  station  as  Sydney 
and  Bertie  took  their  places.  Sydney  in  a  velvet  jacket,  a  velvet 
cap,  crowned  with  an  ostrich  feather,  on  her  bright,  wind-blown 
hair,  and  in  a  state  of  eager  expectation.  For  Mr.  Vaughan, 
he  had  not  deigned  to  take  much  interest  in  the  new  comer 
from  the  first ;  judging,  from  Sydney's  talk,  he  was  predisposed 
to  dislike  her  indeed,  as  a  young  person  inclined  to  "  chaff." 
People  inclined  to  chaff,  Bertie  had  found,  from  experience, 
generally  chaffed  him,  and,  like  most  weak  men,  he  was  acutely 
sensitive  to  ridicule. 

The  train  stopped  ;  the  passengers  for  Wychcliffe,  half  a  dozen 
in  number,  came  out.  Among  them  a  tall  young  lady,  in  a 
travelling  suit  of  dark  green  serge,  at  sight  of  whom  Sydney 
uttered  a  joyous  cry  and  plunged  forward  straightway  into  her 
arms. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  says  Bertie  cynically,  eying  the  pair, 
"  they  must  gush.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  kissing  and  exclam- 
ation points,  as  though  they  had  not  seen  each  other  for  a  cen- 
tury or  so  !  She's  not  bad  looking  either — got  eyes  like 
Dolly." 

She  might  have  eyes  like  Dolly,  but  there  all  resemblance 
ended.  Miss  Hendrick's  tall,  pliant  figure  bore  no  similarity  to 
Miss  De  Courcy's  "rounded  and  ripe."  Miss  Hendrick's 
patrician  profile,  and  clear  cut,  colorless,  olive  face,  was  as 
unlike,  as  can  well  be  conceived,  Dolly's  little  saucy  retrousse 
nose  and  highly-colored  complexion. 

"  Cyrilla,  this  is  Bertie  ;  Mr.  Vaughan,  Miss  Hendrick." 

Bertie  flung  away  his  cigar,  doffed  his  hat,  and  bent  before 
Miss  Hendrick  with  his  best  bow.  Miss  Hendrick  looked  at 
him — looked  through  him — with  those  lustrous  ebon  eyes  of 
hers,  smiled,  showed  very  brilliant  teeth,  and  frankly  extended 
one  invisible-green  kidded  hand. 

"  I  don't  feel  at  all  as  though  I  were  meeting  a  stranger  in 
meeting  you,  Mr.  Vaughan.  1  have  been  your  most  intimate 
friend  for  the  past  two  years — haven't  I,  Sydney  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hendrick's  friendship  does  me  proud,"  says  Bertie. 
He  would  like  to  utter  some  very  telling  and  sarcastic  compli- 
ment;  he  has  an  instinctive  longing  to  "take  her  down"  at 
sight,  but  the  truth  is,  he  can  think  of  none.  Her  pronounced 
manner  has  taken  him  decidedly  aback.  He  had  expected  to 
meet  a  school-girl,  more  or  less  gauche  and  bread-and-buttery, 


TO  ONE    THING   CONSTANT    NEVER.  133 

and  instead  he  saw  a  regal-looking  young  lady,  with  the  "stilly 
tranquil  "  manner  and  gracious  civility  of  a  grande  dame.  The 
aggressive  feeling  he  had  felt,  before  he  saw  her,  deepened  ten- 
fold,  He  had  intended  to  be  very  civil — crushingly  civil  in 
deed — to  Sydney's  little  school  friend  ;  to  patronize  her  in  the 
most  oppressive  manner,  to  get  up  a  mild  flirtation  with  her 
even,  if  she  had  any  pretensions  to  good  looks  ;  and  behold, 
here  she  was  absolutely  patronizing  him,  and  looking  him 
through,  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones,  with  those  piercing, 
steadfast  black  eyes — like  in  color,  but  wonderfully  unlike  in 
every  other  respect,  Dolly's. 

"  I  expect  you  two  to  become  fast  friends  at  once  !  "  cries  Syd- 
ney. "  You  know  all  about  each  other  beforehand,  and  are 
compatriots  besides." 

"  '  None  know  me  but  to  love  me, 
None  name  me  but  to  praise,'  " 

says  Bertie,  helping  them  in.     "  I  have  heard  Miss  Hendrick's 
praises  sung  so  assiduously  for  the  past  week,  that " 

"  The  very  sound  of  her  name  bores  you — yes,  I  understand," 
interrupts  Cyrilla.  "Syd,  what  a  bewitching  little  turn-out, 
and  what  handsome  steppers!  You  will  let  me  drive  you, 
won't  you?  I'm  a  capital  whip." 

"  I'll  let  you  do  anything  you  please.  Oh!  darling,  how  good 
it  seems  to  have  you  with  me  again  ! "  Sydney  said,  cuddling 
close  to  Cyrilla's  side.  "  How  are  they  all  in  Petite  St.  Jacques  ? 
How  is  Freddy  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  Freddy  since  the  night  I  risked  a  broken 
neck  and  a  shattered  reputation  getting  out  of  the  window  to 
meet  him.  I  managed  to  answer  his  letter,  and  there  thing" 
remain.  For  the  rest — Miss  Jones  has  left  the  school." 

"  What ! ' 

"  Perfectly  true.  It  was  suddenly  discovered  that  she  had 
a  passion  for  novel-reading  (Mile.  Stephanie's  pet  abomination), 
and  was  a  subscriber  to  the  town  circulating  library — that  one  of 
the  French  girls  was  in  the  habit  of  smuggling  in  the  forbidden 
fruit,  and  having  all  her  lessons  done  by  Miss  Jones  in  return. 
The  crime  was  proven  beyond  refutation  and — Miss  Jones  sud- 
denly and  quietly  left  the  school." 

"  Oh  h  ! " — a  very  prolonged  "oh,"  indeed — "Mile.  Stephanie 
dismissed  her  ?" 

"  So  I  presume.     The  fact  remains — she  went." 


134  TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER. 

"Cyrilla,"  Sydney  said,  a  look  of  pain  on  her  face,  "  did — did 
you  do  this  ?" 

"And  what  if  I  did,  Syd  ?  There  was  little  love  left  be- 
tween us  from  the  first,  and  it  pleased  Heaven  to  diminish  it 
on  further  acquaintance.  Yes — indirectly  it  was  through  me 
that  Ma'amselle  Stephanie  made  the  discovery,  I  must  own." 

There  was  silence ;  unconsciously,  involuntarily,  Sydney 
shrunk  a  little  from  her  friend. 

"  Well,  Syd,  did  I  do  wrong  ?  Were  you  so  fond  of  Miss 
Jones  that  you  put  on  that  shocked  face  ?  " 

"  Fond  of  her  ? — no,"  Sydney  answered,  slowly ;  "  but  I  am 
sorry  you  did  this.  Poor  Miss  Jones  !  life  had  gone  hard  with 
her,  I  am  afraid,  and  soured  her.  She  stood  quite  alone  in  the 
world,  and  it  was  all  the  home  she  had." 

"  My  dearest  Syd,"  Miss  Hendrick  said,  laughing,  "  if  you 
carry  that  tender  heart  of  yours  through  life  you'll  find  it  bleed- 
ing at  every  turn.  I  owed  Miss  Jones  a  long  debt,  and  I  have 
paid  it — that  is  all." 

"And  she  will  pay  you  if  ever  she  has  the  chance,  you  may 
be  sure  of  that,  Cyrilla." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  Sydney.  But  it  is  not  my  intention  to  let 
her  have  the  chance.  She  does  not  know  Aunt  Phil's  address, 
and  most  likely  never  will.  People  who  have  to  work  for  the 
bread  they  eat  have  no  time  for  vendetta.  Why  do  we  talk'of 
eo  contemptible  a  subject  at  all  ?  Let  us  talk  of  yourself,  chere 
belle.  So  that  is  our  Bertie.  He  is  as  handsome  as  Narcis- 
sus." 

"  And,  like  Narcissus,  knows  it  only  too  well." 

There  was  a  touch,  all  unconscious,  of  bitterness  in  Sydney's 
answer  that  did  not  escape  the  quick  ear  of  her  friend. 

"  Everything  is  settled,  I  suppose,  and  the  happy  day  fixed  ? 
When  is  it  to  be,  darling,  this  month  or  next  ?  " 

"The  happy  day  is  not  fixed,"  Sydney  answered,  trying  to 
speak  lightly,  and  feeling  the  color  burning  in  her  cheeks  ;  "  not 
this  month,  certainly.  Next  very  likely,  if — at  all." 

"  My  dear  child,"  Cyrilla  cried,  really  startled,  "  '  if  at  all  ! ' 
What  an  odd  thing  to  say  ! " 

"  Is  it  ?  But  who  knows  what  may  happen  ?  Who  can  tell 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth,  much  less  a  month  ?  I  have  the 
strongest  prophetic  conviction  there  will  be  no  wedding  at 
all." 

She  spoke  almost  without  volition  of  her  own — something 
within  her  seemed  to  say  the  words.  In  the  tragic  time  that 


TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER.  135 

was  to  come,  that  was  even  then  at  hand,  she  recalled  that 
involuntary  sentence  with  strange,  sombre  wonder.  For  Cyrilla 
— she  sat  and  looked  at  her,  rendered  utterly  speechless  for  a 
moment  by  this  unexpected  declaration. 

"  Don't  stare  so,  Cy,"  Sydney  laughed,  recovering  her  custo- 
mary good  humor.  "  It's  very  rude.  Why,  I  may  be  dead  and 
buried  in  a  month  ! " 

"  Very  true — or  Bertie  !  " 

"  Or  Bertie." 

"  Or  one  of  you  may  prove  false." 

"  Or  one  of  us  may  prove  false  ;  "  but  as  Sydney  repeated 
the  answer  the  color  slowly  died  out  of  her  face. 

"Sydney  !"  Cyrilla  exclaimed,  "it  isn't  possible — no,  it  isn't, 
that  you  have  gone  and  fallen  in  love  since  you  left  school  ?  " 

Sydney's  clear  laugh  rang  out  so  merrily  that  no  other  answer 
was  needed,  and  Bertie  turning  around,  demanded  to  know  the 
joke. 

"  Nothing  concerning  you,  Bertie — only  something  very  witty 
Miss  Hendrick  has  said  by  accident.  Here  we  are.  Cy — wel- 
come to  my  home,  which  I  hope  you  will  make  yours  very, 
very  often." 

Miss  Hendrick  was  received  with  profoundest  deference  by 
Captain  Owenson,  with  a  smiling  kiss  by  Aunt  Char,  and 
shown  to  the  pretty  room  prepared  for  her — the  prettiest  by  far 
that  she  had  ever  occupied  ;  and  here  Sydney  left  her,  to  change 
her  own  dress  before  dinner.  Cyrilla  sat  down  for  a  moment 
in  the  low  easy-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  burning  cheerily  in  the 
steel  grate,  and  slowly  and  thoughtfully  removed  her  wraps. 

"  So,"  she  thought,  "  that's  the  way  the  land  lies — already. 
Master  Bertie  has  placed  his  pretty  face  and  impecunious  hand 
at  another  shrine,  and  Sydney  has  found  it  out.  He  doesn't 
like  me.  I  could  see  that.  We  are  antagonistic  at  sight.  All 
your  weak  men  are  fickle  and  foolish.  I  wonder  who  his  inamo- 
rata can  be  ? 

"  '  Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever, 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go        n  " 

Cyrilla  hummed  softly  as  she  dressed.  She  wore  the  before 
mentioned  garnet  merino,  the  gold  and  ruby  set,  a  jet  comb  in 
her  black  hair,  a  cluster  of  scarlet  geranium  blossoms  ami  velvet 


136  TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER. 

green  leaf  over  one  ear.  And  so,  with  the  air  of  a  grand- 
duchess  in  her  own  right,  Miss  Hendrick  swept  down  to  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Thoroughbred,"  was  Captain  Owenson's  inward  critique  ; 
"a  Bohemian  by  accident,  a  lady  by  birth  and  breeding  to  the 
core.  Ah  !  they  may  say  what  they  like  in  this  new  land,  but 
blood  will  tell." 

He  gave  his  handsome  guest  his  arm  to  the  dining-room, 
with  stately  Sir  Charles  Grandison  courtesy.  Bertie  followed 
after  with  Aunt  Char,  and  Sydney  came  in  the  rear. 

"  1  say,  Bertie,  can't  you  get  up  anything  to  amuse  the 
girls  this  first  evening?"  the  captain  inquired.  "There's 
a  theatre  of  some  sort  over  in  the  town  they  tell  me.  Is  it 
eligible  ?  " 

"All  the  best  people  of  WychclifTe  attend,  sir." 

"  Ha  !  do  they  ?  And  what  is  the  piece  to-night  ?  Anything 
worth  going  to  see  ?" 

"  The  '  School  for  Scandal '  and  the  '  Loan  of  a  Lover,' " 
answered  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan. 

"  Ambitious  at  least — capital  things  both.  And  the  actors, 
my  boy — very  fourth  or  fifth  class,  no  doubt,  as  befits  strolling 
players  ?  " 

"  A  few  of  them,  sir ;  a  few  also  are  very  good  indeed,"  an- 
swered Vaughan,  rather  resentfully. 

"  Then  what  do  you  say,  young  ladies  ?  What  do  you  say, 
mamma  ?  Shall  Bertie  take  you  to  see  the  '  School  for 
Scandal'  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  papa,"  responded  Sydney. 

"  And  so  should  I,  I  am  sure,"  said  Aunt  Char.  "  There's 
nothing  I  used  to  be  so  fond  of  when  I  was  a  girl  as  going  to 
the  theatre." 

"  And  you,  Miss  Hendrick  ?  "  inquired  the  deferential  host. 

"  I  shall  be  charmed,  Captain  Ovvenson  ;  I  delight  in  the 
theatre." 

"  Then  that  is  settled.  There  will  be  no  trouble  about  seats, 
or  anything  of  that  sort,  Bertie  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  sir.  It  is  a  benefit  to-night,  you 
see,  and  the  season  closes  to-morrow.  The  beneficiary  is  a 
prime  favorite,  and  the  house  is  likely  to  be  crowded." 

"  Who  is  the  beneficiary  ?  "  asked  Sydney,  flashing  a  sudden 
intent  look  into  his  face. 

That  fatal  trick  of  blushing  !  Up  came  the  blood  of  con« 
scious  guilt  into  the  ingenuous  face  of  Mr.  Vaughan. 


TO   ONE    THING    CONSTANT  NEVER.  13? 

"  Miss  De  Courcy — you  saw  her  the  other  night,  you  re 
member.  She  plays  Lady  Teazle." 

"  What's  the  boy  blushing  about  ? "  cried  the  captain. 
"  Miss  De — what  did  you  say,  Bertie  ?  " 

"  De  Courcy,  sir — a  nom  de  theatre,  no  doubt,"  answered 
Bertie,  his  natural  complexion  back  once  more.  As  he  made 
the  reply  he  looked  involuntarily  across  at  Miss  Hendrick  to 
find  that  young  lady's  dark  searching  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him 
— a  look  of  amusement  in  their  depths. 

"  She  should  be  a  tolerable  actress  to  undertake  Lady 
Teazle,"  Cyrilla  said,  suavely.  "I  know  of  no  more  difficult 
part." 

"  She  is  a  good  actress — ^  charming  actress,"  retorted  Ber- 
tie, a  certain  defiance  in  his  tone.  u  I  have  seen  many,  but 
never  one  much  better." 

"  Isn't  she  rather  wasting  her  sweetness  on  desert  air,  then  ?" 
suggested  the  captain.  "Jt  seems  a  pity  such  transcendant 
talent  should  be  thrown  away  on  mill-men.  Suppose  you  all 
start  early  and  so  make  sure  of  good  seats." 

There  was  a  universal  uprising,  a  universal  alacrity  in  hasten- 
ing away  to  prepare.  Squire  Owenson's  proposal  met  the 
views  of  all  capitally.  Bertie,  who  had  looked  forward  to  a 
long,  dragging,  dull  evening  listening  to  Sydney  and  her  friend 
playing  the  piano  or  gossiping  about  the  school,  brightened 
up  wonderfully.  Sydney  had  an  intense  curiosity  to  see  again 
the  actress  whose  very  name  could  bring  hot  guilty  blushes  to 
Bertie's  boyish  face,  and  Cyrilla  was  desirous  of  beholding  Syd 
ney's  rival.  So  a  hasty  toilet  was  made,  and  the  three  ladies 
piled  into  the  carriage,  with  Bertie,  submerged  in  drapery, 
between  them,  and  were  driven  away  through  a  whirling  snow- 
storm to  the  Wychcliffe  theatre. 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  as  the  last  bars  of  the  "Agnes  Sore? 
Quadrille,"  with  which  the  provincial  orchestra  was  delighting 
the  audience,  died  away,  there  entered  a  group  that  at  once 
aroused  the  interest  of  the  house.  A  flutter  of  surprise  and 
admiration  ran  along  the  benches — a  hundred  pair  of  eyes 
'turned  to  stare  with  right  good  will.  The  theatre  was  filled,  as 
Vaughan  had  foretold — pretty,  piquant  Dolly  was  so  great  a 
favorite  that  they  were  giving  her  a  bumper  house.  All  eyes, 
and  a  few  glasses,  turned  upon  these  late  comers,  who  swept 
up  to  the  third  row  of  seats,  taking  the  play  house  in  splendid 
style. 

Bertie  Vaughan  came  first,  with  a  young  lady  on  his  arm— 


IjS  TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER. 

not  Miss  Owenson — a  tall,  dark,  stately  young  lady,  wearing 
an  opera  wrap,  a  jet  comb,  and  scarlet-geranium  blossoms  in 
her  hair.  Miss  Owenson  came  next,  with  her  mamma,  looking 
fair  as  a  lily,  her  light  flowing  hair  falling  loose  and  unadorned. 
A  few  significant  looks,  a  few  significant  smiles,  were  inter- 
changed. It  would  be  rather  good  fun  to  see  the  actress 
Vaughan  was  in  love  with,  and  the  heiress  he  was  to  marry 
face  to  face. 

The  broad,  universal  stare  sent  the  color  fluttering  tremu- 
lously in  and  out  of  Sydney's  childlike  face.  Miss  Hendrick 
bo. 5  it  all  with  the  profoundly  unconscious  air  of  a  three- 
seasons'  belle,  hardened  by  long  custom  to  open  admiration.  A 
little  bell  tinkled  as  they  took  their  places,  the  curtain  went  up, 
and  the  "  School  for  Scandal  "  began. 

Cyrilla,  lying  gracefully  back  in  her  chair,  slowly  fluttering 
her  fan,  smiled  with  barely-repressed  disdain  as  she  watched 
that  first  scene.  Ah  !  she  had  seen  that  most  bewitching  of 
comedies  played  three  years  ago,  in  London,  in  a  theatre  where 
all  were  good,  and  a  few  were  nearly  perfect.  To  Sydney  it  was 
simply  entrancing.  It  was  almost  her  first  visit  to  a  play,  and 
she  was  neither  prepared  nor  inclined  to  make  invidious  dis- 
tinctions. 

So  absorbed  did  she  become  that  she  almost  forgot  her  prin- 
cipal object  in  coming,  until  at  last  Lady  Teazle  appeared  on 
the  stage.  A  tumult  of  applause  greeted  her  ;  and  Dolly,  look- 
ing charmingly  in  the  piquant  costume  of  old  Sir  Peter's  youthful 
wife,  bowed,  and  dimpled,  and  smiled  her  thanks. 

"  Ah  !  pretty,  decidedly  !  "  was  Miss  Hendrick' s  thought.  She 
glanced  at  Bertie  Vaughan.  Yes,  the  tell-tale  face  had  lit  up, 
the  blue  eyes  were  alight,  a  smile  of  eager  welcome  was  on  his 
lips,  his  kidded  hands  were  applauding  tumultuously.  She 
glanced  at  Sydney.  A  sort  of  pallor  had  chased  away  the  flush 
of  absorption  ;  a  sort  of  gravity  her  friends  had  never  seen  there 
before,  set  her  soft-cut,  childish  mouth. 

"  Poor  little  Syd  !"  Cyrilla  thought ;  "it  is  rather  hard  your 
father  should  insist  upon  making  you  miserable  for  life  whether 
or  no.  You  don't  love  this  handsome  dandy,  but  he  will  break 
your  heart  all  the  same.  I  would  like  to  see  the  actress,  were 
she  beautiful  as  Venus  herself,  that  Fred  Carew  would  throw 
me  over  for  !  " 

The  play  went  on.  Dolly  did  her  best,  and  received  ap- 
plause enough,  noisy  and  hearty,  to  satisfy  a  Rachel  or  a 
Ristori.  xThe  smile,  a  smile  of  quiet  amusement,  deepened  on 


TO   ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER.  139 

Miss  Hendrick's  lips — a  smile  that  nettled  Bertie  Vaughan. 
The  great  screen-scene  came,  and  at  Miss  De  Courcy's  pose, 
and  the  acting  that  followed,  Cyrilla  absolutely  laughed  aloud. 

"  You  seem  well  amused,  Miss  Hendrick,"  Bertie  said,  ag- 
gressively, an  angry  light  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"  I  am  well  amused,  Mr.  Vaughan.  I  may  safely  say  this 
performance  is  a  treat.  I  may  also  safely  say,  I  never  saw  a 
comedy  so  thoroughly  comical  before. 

"You  don't  like  it,  Cy?"  asked  Sydney.  "Of  course,  after 
the  London  theatres,  it  must  seem  very  poor.  What  do  you 
think  of — of  Miss  De  Courcy  ?  " 

"  Miss  De  Courcy  is  the  most  original  Lady  Teazle  I  ever 
beheld    in    my    life,"    Cyrilla    replied,    still    laughing.       "Mr. 
Vaughan,  I  thought  you  said  they  had  some  tolerable  perform- 
ers in  this  company  ?    What  has  become  of  them  to-night  ?  " 

"  Miss  Hendrick  is  pleased  to  be  fastidious.  For  my  part,  I 
think  Miss  De  Courcy  plays  remarkably  well,  and  gives  promise 
of  becoming  in  the  future  a  very  first-class  artiste.  Try  to  re- 
collect this  is  not  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Theatre." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  it,"  laughed  Cyrilla,  with  wicked 
enjoyment  of  the  young  man's  evident  chargin.  "  And  you 
really  think,  Mr.  Vaughan,  that  Miss  De  Courcy  plays  well,  and 
gives  promise  of  becoming  a  popular  actress?" 

"  Do  not  you,  Miss  Hendrick  ?" 

"  Most  decidedly — most  emphatically  not.  If  she  lives  for 
fifty  years,  and  spends  every  one  of  them  on  the  stage,  she  will 
not  be  a  whit  better  at  the  end  than  she  is  now.  She  does  not 
possess  the  first  elements  of  a  good  actress.  Personally,  she  is  too 
short,  too  stout,  too  florid,  too — may  I  say  it  ? — vulgar.  Mentally 
• — she  has  not  an  ounce  of  brains  in  her  head,  she  does  not  know 
the  A  B  C  of  her  art.  But  I  see  I  bore  you,  I  had  better  stop." 

"  By  no  means,"  cried  Bertie,  defiantly.     "  Go  on." 

"  Well,  then,  did  you  not  see  how  flat  the  screen-scene  fell  ? — 
that  is  the  best  situation  in  the  play — she  made  nothing  of  it. 
And  she  is  making  eyes  at  the  house  all  the  while — a  fatal  mis- 
take. An  actress  should  be  the  character  she  represents,  and 
utterly  ignore  her  audience.  And  she  minces  in  her  walk  ;  she 
talks  English  with  a  Yankee  accent ;  she  is  coarse  in  voice  and 
manner ;  she  hasn't  the  faintest  conception  of  a  lady.  A  tol- 
erable "singing  chambermaid,"  with  training,  she  might  make  : 
a  tolerable  comedienne,  never  1" 

"  A  strident  sentence.  But  it  is  so  much  easier  always  to 
criticise  than  to  do  better." 


140  TO   ONE    THING    CONSTANT  NEVER. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  could  do  very  much  better,"  re 
sponded  Cyrilla,  coolly.  "  I  lived  among  theatrical  people  all 
my  life  before  I  came  to  Canada,  and  was  pretty  thoroughly 
drilled  in  the  rudiments  of  the  profession.  Once  I  looked  for- 
ward to  treading  the  boards  myself  before  my  aunt  changed  all 
that.  If  I  were  in  Miss  De  Courcy's  place  to-night,  I  assure 
you  I  would  play  Lady  Teazle  much  better.  Don't  look  so 
disgusted,  Mr.  Vaughan,  it  is  perfectly  true." 

Again  she  laughed,  more  and  more  amused  at  Bertie's  irri- 
tated face.  The  curtain  had  fallen,  and  Ben  Ward  had  left  his 
seat  and  gone  out.  Bertie  knew  what  that  meant — a  quiet 
flirtation  with  Dolly  behind  the  scenes.  He  fidgeted  uneasily, 
galled  by  Cyrilla' s  contemptuous  criticism,  yet  unable  to  resent 
it,  jealous  of  Ward,  and  longing  desperately  to  break  away  and 
rush  behind  the  scenes  also.  The  two  girls  were  discussing  the 
play ;  Cyrilla  in  an  undertone  burlesquing  Miss  De  Courcy 
for  Sydney's  benefit.  That  was  the  straw  too  much ;  he  arose. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me,  Sydney,"  he  said,  pointedly  ignoring 
Sydney's  friend,  "  I'll  leave  you  for  a  moment.  There's  a — er 
• — man  down  at  the  door  I  wish  to  speak  to." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  turned  and  walked  out,  with 
his  usual  negligent  saunter.  Two  minutes  more,  and  he  made 
his  appearance  in  the  green  room,  in  time  to  behold  his  rival 
presenting  Miss  De  Courcy  with  a  very  handsome  bouquet. 

"Ah,  Vaughan!"  Ward  said,  with  a  cool  nod,  "how  are 
you?  Dencedly  pretty  girls  those  you  escort  to  night.  Who's 
the  dark  one  ?  " 

"  No  one  you  know,  Mr.  Ward,  or  are  likely  to  know,"  retorted 
Bertie,  turning  his  back  upon  him.  "  Dolly,  you're  in  capital 
form  this  evening,  never  saw  you  look  or  play  better  in  my  life." 

"It's  a  pity  you  can't  make  one  of  the  young  ladies  you  have 
with  you  think  so,"  cried  Dolly,  her  eyes  arlame.  "  Do  you 
suppose  I  don't  see  her  laughing  at  me — at  us  all — since  she 
came  in  ?  Such  sneering  fine  ladies  as  that  ought  to  stay  at 
home — not  come  here  to  laugh  at  their  betters." 

"Gently,  Dolly — gently,"  put  in  Ward,  maliciously;  "you'll 
hurt  Vaughan' s  feelings.  One  of  those  two  is  the  girl  he  is  to 
marry  this  month  or  next.  It  wasn't  she  who  was  laughing  at 
you,  was  it  ?  Admiring  you  as  Vaughan  does,  I  should  think 
he  would  have  taught  her  better." 

"  It  was  the  girl  in  the  white  opera  cloak  and  red  dress,"  said 
wrathful  Dolly  ;  "  she  sat  and  sneered  every  time  I  opened  my 
lips — /could  see  her.  You  had  better  go  back  to  them  Mr. 


TO    ONE   THING   CONSTANT  NEVER.  141 

Vaughan,"  cried  Dolly,  with  a  toss  of  Lady  Teazle's  tall  head- 
dress. "  You're  only  wasting  your  time  here." 

"  I  think  I  am,  by "  exclaimed  Vaughan,  with  a  furious 

oath.  "I've  wasted  too  much  of  it  already.  You're  a  fool, 
Dolly,  and  you'll  live  to  repent  it  !  " 

He  dashed  out,  his  blue  eyes  lurid  with  jealous  rage. 

"  Bertie,"  Dolly  called,  faintly  ;  but  if  he  heard  he  never 
looked  back.  He  strode  straight  out,  straight  into  the  theatre, 
and  resumed  his  seat  beside  his  affianced. 

"  By  jingo  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ward,  his  shrill  whistle  of  as- 
tonishment cutting  the  air;  "who'd  have  thought  there  was  so 
much  fire  in  a  milk-sop !  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Dolly,  on 
your  pluck  in  getting  rid  of  him." 

"  Keep  your  congratulations,"  retorted  Miss  De  Courcy,  the 
fine  furious  temper  she  naturally  possessed  all  afire,  "  and  let 
me  get  rid  of  you.  Keep  your  flowers,  too — I  don't  want  them. 
1  wish  I  had  never  seen  them  or  you  !  " 

She  flung  them  at  his  feet. 

"  Go  on,  Dolly,"  said  somebody,  hurriedly  ;  "  stage  is  wait- 
ing," and  Dolly  went  on.  Went  on,  white  as  ashes  where 
rouge  was  not,  playing  worse  than  ever,  half  maddened  by  the 
sight  of  Bertie  Vaughan  laughing  and  chatting  with  his  two  fair 
friends.  For  Mr.  Ward,  he  had  calmly  picked  up  his  disdained 
bouquet,  and  sauntered  back  to  his  place  in  front. 

"  I'll  throw  it  to  her  at  the  end,"  thought  this  mill  owning 
young  philosopher  ;  "  and  she'll  take  it  too.  I  know  what 
Dolly's  tantrums  amount  to.  '  All  things  are  possible  to  the 
man  who  knows  how  to  wait.'  " 

The  end  came,  the  bouquet  was  thrown  and — accepted.  Ber- 
tie saw  her  pick  it  up,  press  it  to  her  lips,  and  bow  and  smile 
to  the  donor,  unmoved.  She  was  coarse  (so  had  set  in  the 
current  of  this  most  unstable  gentleman's  thoughts)  ;  she  was 
a  poor  actress  ;  he  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  been  so 
blind  as  to  think  her  otherwise.  If  he  married  her  he  would 
be  ashamed  of  her  all  his  life  long.  He  was  the  sort  of  man 
to  make  a  mad  marriage,  and  be  ashamed  of  his  wife  all  the 
rest  of  his  days,  and  revenge  his  folly  on  her  head.  She  was 
uneducated — she  was  vulgar — she  had  horrible  relatives,  no 
doubt — she  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  recommend  her  but  two 
bold  black  eyes  and  a  highly-colored  complexion.  Was  the 
game  worth  the  candle  ?  Was  this  actress  worth  the  sacrifice 
of  honor,  wealth  and  caste — all  that  had  ever  made  his  life  ? 
And  if  what  Miss  Hendrick  said  were  true — that  she  did  not 


142  TO   ONE    THING    CONSTANT  NEVER. 

possess  the  first  elements  of  theatrical  success — \vhat  then? 
As  her  husband  he  would  be  a  beggar — a  miserable,  seedy, 
shabby  beggar.  To  marry  an  actress  in  receipt  of  three  or  four 
hundred  dollars  a  week  would  be  a  sacrifice  for  a  man  of  his 
appearance,  prospects  and  standing — to  marry  an  actress  earn- 
ing a  wretched  pittance  of  ten  or  twenty  dollars  a  week  only — 
good  Heaven  ! — a  shudder  ran  through  him  ;  what  an  escape 
he  had  had  !  He  detested  Miss  Hendrick,  but  he  felt  abso- 
lutely grateful  to  her  for  opening  his  eyes.  What  an  idiot — 
what  an  utter  drivelling  idiot  he  had  been  !  Let  Ward  take  her 
— greater  fool,  Ward — he  was  rich,  and  could  indulge  in  folly  it 
he  chose.  For  himself,  he  would  keep  his  honor  intact,  he 
would  marry  Sydney,  and  become  master  of  Owenson  Place, 
and  the  captain's  noble  bank  stock.  He  looked  across  at  her, 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement  and  warmth,  her  eyes  spar- 
kling, her  fair  hair  falling  to  her  waist.  How  pretty,  how  sweet, 
how  refined  the  was.  Hers  was  the  sort  of  beauty  years  would 
but  improve — at  thirty  she  would  be  a  radiantly  beautiful 
woman.  What  a  contrast  to  Dolly  De  Courcy— poor  Dolly  ! 
singing,  dancing,  coquetting  before  the  footlights  in  her  peasant 
garb  in  the  "  Loan  of  a  Lover,"  casting  imploring,  penitent 
glances  at  him,  doing  her  best  to  attract  his  notice.  He  put  up 
his  glass  and  surveyed  her,  a  feeling  akin  to  repulsion  within  him. 
He  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  the  turning-point  of  his  life,  his 
last  chance  of  earthly  salvation. 

It  all  ended.  They  called  Dolly  out,  and  she  came,  curtsey- 
ing, and  with  that  stereotyped  smile  on  her  lips,  her  imploring 
eyes  still  bent  on  Bertie.  But  he  would  not  see  her,  he  was 
tenderly  and  solicitously  wrapping  Miss  Owenson' s  blue  scarf 
about  her  shoulders,  preparatory  to  going  out. 

Through  the  white,  whirling  night  they  drove  home.  Two  or 
three  inches  of  snow  already  covered  the  ground.  Winter  had 
come  before  its  time.  And  Bertie  in  a  corner  "  pondered  in  1m 
heart  and  was  still." 

"  I'll  see  Dolly  once  more,  and  make  an  end  of  it  all,"  he 
mused.  "  I  would  be  the  most  contemptible  cad  that  ever 
lived  if  I  disappointed  the  governor  after  all  he  has  done  for 
me.  To  jilt  an  heiress  like  Sydney  for  a  penniless,  common- 
place actress  like  Dolly  would  be  sheer  madness — a  girl  with 
lovers  in  New  York  and  Wychcliffe,  and  the  deuce  knows  where 
besides.  And  I  would  tire  of  her  in  a  month.  She's  as  jealous 
and  exacting  as  the  very  dickens.  Yes,  by  Jove  1  I'll  throw 
over  the.  actress  and  marry  the  heiress  !  " 


•JUS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."     143 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HIS    HONOR,  ROOTED    IN    DISHONOR,  STOOD." 

1YDNEY  sat  very  silent  and  thoughtful  during  the 
homeward  drive,  lying  back  in  her  cozy  coiner,  and 
watching  the  white,  whirling  night  outside.  All  un- 
conscious of  Bertie's  good  resolutions,  her  thoughts 
were  running  in  an  entirely  opposite  groove.  If  anything  had 
been  wanting  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  true  state  of  Mr.  Vaughan's 
affections,  to-night  at  the  theatre  had  opened  them.  She  had 
seen  him  look  at  Miss  De  Courcy  as  he  had  certainly  never 
looked  at  her.  She  understood  the  secret  of  his  brief  absence 
as  well  as  he  did  himself;  there  no  longer  remained  a  doubt  in 
her  mind.  He  cared  nothing  for  her,  and  he  did  care  a  very 
great  deal  for  this  dashing  actress. 

"Then  I  shall  never  marry  him,"  Sydney  thought — "nevei 
— never !  This  is  why  he  has  not  spoken — why  he  is  so  offer 
absent,  why  he  stays  out  so  late  nights.  He  is  running  aftei 
Miss  De  Courcy.  Oh  !  why  cannot  he  be  brave,  and  speak 
out,  and  tell  me  the  truth  ?  I  don't  want  to  marry  him,  I  don't 
want  to  marry  anybody,  and  he  must  know  it.  Papa  would  not 
be  so  very  angry,  and  he  might  forgive  him — perhaps." 

But  here  Sydney  stopped.  Papa  would  be  most  tremen- 
dously angry  ;  papa  would  never  forgive  him  to  the  day  of  his 
death.  She  could  never  dare  tell  papa  the  truth  ;  if  the  mar- 
riage  was  broken  off,  it  must  be  through  her  own  unwillingness 
to  keep  to  the  compact,  not  his,  else  Bertie  was  ruined  for  life. 

"  I  will  speak  to  papa  this  very  night,  if  I  get  a  chance.  I 
couldn't  marry  Bertie — oh,  never  !  never  ! — knowing  he  cared 
for  another  more  than  me  ;  that  all  the  time  he  was  standing  by 
my  side  in  the  church  he  was  wishing  another  girl  in  my  place. 
No,  I  couldn't,  not  even  to  please  papa.  1  don't  care  for  Bertie 
now,  but  if  I  were  married  to  him,  it  might  be  different ;  and 
to  grow  fond  of  him,  and  feel  sure  he  cared  nothing  for  me — • 
no,  I  could  not  bear  that !  " 

The  pretty,  gentle  face  looked  strangely  troubled,  as  Bertie 
helped  her  out,  and  she  ran  up  the  steps  and  into  the  hall. 
How  wintry  and  wild  the  night  had  grown — the  trees  standing 
up  ink-black  in  the  whirling  whiteness. 

Captain  Owenson  had  sat  up  for  the  return  of  his  narem.    A 


144     "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD  »\ 

bright  fire  and  a  comfortable  supper  awaited  them.  Mrs 
Ovvenson,  Cyrilla,  and  Bertie  partook  of  cold  chicken  and 
champagne,  with  appetites  whetted  by  the  keen  wind,  but  Doll) 
De  Courcy  had  completely  taken  away  Sydney's.  Her  father 
was  the  only  one  who  noticed  it — her  father,  whose  doting  eyes 
n  ?ver  left  her  face  for  long. 

"Well,  little  one,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?  Has  Lady  Teazle 
been  supper  enough  for  you  ?  You  eat  nothing." 

It  was  altogether  the  most  random  of  shots,  but  it  went 
straight  home.  Sydney  started  guiltily,  and  seized  her  knife 
and  fork  ;  Bertie  set  down  his  glass  untasted  ;  Miss  Hendrick, 
delicately  carving  a  wing,  smiled  in  malicious  triumph. 

"  I  do  most  sincerely  hope  this  supercilious  dandy  will  lose 
Sydney,"  she  thought,  "  even  at  the  eleventh  hour.  A  dandy  one 
could  forgive — Freddy  is  that,  bless  him  ! — but  a  fool,  never  ! " 

"  How  did  you  find  this  famous  actress,  of  whom  Bertie 
speaks  so  highly?"  pursued  the  captain,  whose  evil  genius  evi- 
dently sat  at  his  elbow  prompting  him.  "  Is  she  the  star  he 
makes  her  out,  or  was  the  '  School  for  Scandal '  a  disappoint- 
ment?" 

There  was  a  pause.  As  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Vaughan 
reddened  violently.  The  question  being  addressed  generally, 
no  one  felt  called  upon  to  answer,  and  it  was  Aunt  Char  who 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"  I  am  sure  I  think  it  was  very  nice,"  that  good  lady  said, 
"and  Lady  Teazle  played  remarkably  well.  I  don't  think 
it's  a  very  moral  play  myself,  because  it  was,  of  course,  shock- 
ing of  that  wicked  Mr.  Joseph  Surface  to  make  love  to  a  mar- 
ried lady.  But  really  I  could  not  help  laughing  when  the 
screen  fell,  and  there  she  was  before  her  husband  and  the  two 
Mr.  Surfaces.  One  had  to  feel  for  her,  too,  she  looked  so 
ashamed  of  herself.  I  saw  you  laughing,  Miss  Hendrick — you 
thought  that  particularly  good,  I  am  sure." 

"  Particularly  good,  Mrs.  Owenson,"  replied  Cyrilla,  that 
malicious  smile  deepening  in  her  dark,  derisive  eyes  ;  "  so  good 
that  I  laugh  now  in  recollecting  it.  I  think  we  all  admire  Miss 
De  Courcy  excessively — not  so  much  as  Mr.  Vaughan,  per- 
haps, who  is  an  old  friend,  but  very  much  indeed  for  a  first 
acquaintance." 

Bertie  lifted  his  eyes,  and  looked  across  at  her  with  a  glance 
uf  absolute  hatred. . 

"  Malicious  little  devil !  "  he  thought,  "  I  would  like  to  choke, 
her." 


"HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."      145 

"Well,  puss,  and  what  do  you  say?"  continued  Sydney's 
fu'l  er. 

"  1  think  Miss  De  Courcy  is  very  pretty  and  very  popular  ; 
but  of  actors  and  actresses  I  am  no  judge.  Mamma,  did  you  see 
Harry  Sunderland  with  Augusta  Van  Twiller  ?  I  wonder  if 
ti;i-\  really  are  engaged?" 

Then  the  talk  drifted  to  the  Sunderlands,  and  Bertie  was  safe 
again.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  ;  his  eyes  had  not  been  opened 
a  second  too  soon.  He  was  suspected  even  by  Sydney.  For 
this  obnoxious  Miss  Hendrick,  her  keen  black  eyes  saw  every- 
thii  g  ;  she  was  his  enemy,  and  would  do  him  harm  if  she 
could. 

"But  that  she  shall  not,"  he  thought,  as  he  said  good-night. 
"  I'll  prove  an  alibi  to  Sydney,  though  I  should  have  to  swear 
black  is  white." 

He  went  to  his  room,  and  his  example  was  followed  by 
Cyrilla  and  Aunt  Char.  For  Sydney,  she  lingered  yet  a  little 
longer,  seated  on  a  hassock  at  her  father's  side,  her  yellow  head 
lying  on  his  knee,  her  blue  dreamy  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  For 
a  n.oment  or  two  he  watched  the  thoughtful,  childish  face  in 
silence  ;  then  his  hand  fell  lightly  on  the  flaxen  hair. 

"What  is  it,  petite?"  he  asked — so  tender  the  harsh  old 
voice  was  !  "  What  troubles  my  little  one  ?  For  you  are  in 
tn.uble — I  can  see  that." 

'I  he  way  was  opening  of  itself,  and  Sydney  felt  relieved. 
She  had"  been  thinking  anxiously  how  to  begin. 

"  Trouble,  papa"  she  answered,  taking  the  hand  fondly  in 
both  her  own.  "  No,  not  trouble  ;  that  is  too  strong  a  word. 
Tiouble  has  never  com£  near  me  yet." 

"And  pray  Heaven  it  never  may.     What  is  it,  then  ?  " 

"Well,  papa,  I  am — what  is  the  word? — worried.  Just  the 
least  bit  in  the  world  worried." 

"  About  what  ?  "  he  asked,  quickly.     "  Not  Bertie  ?  " 

"Yes,  papa,  Bertie  and — this  marriage.  Don't  be  angiy, 
papa,  please  ;  but  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  1  would  rather  not." 

"  A  somewhat  incoherent  speech  !     Rather  not — what  ?  " 

"  Rather  not  be  married,  please.  I  don't  seem  to  care  about 
being  married,  papa." 

Papa  laughed. 

"1  am  so  young — only  a  little  girl  after  all,  you  know;  and 
a  married  lady  ought  to  be  wise  and  sensible  and  old." 

"  Old  ?  One's  ideas  of  age  differ.  What  may  seem  a  ripe 
age  in  your  eyes,  Pussy?" 

7 


146     "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD." 

"Twenty-one  or  two — that  is  a  good  age  to  be  man  led,  if 
one  must  be  married  at  all.  But  I  don't  see  why  one  must, 
especially  when  one  doesn't  seem  to  care  about  it.  I  would 
rather  stay  home  with  you  and  mamma  just  as  I  am." 

"  Mamma  and  I  intend  you  shall  stay  home  with  us  just  as 
you  are." 

"  Oh,  but  it  will  be  different.  I  mean  as  we  are  at  present. 
Bertie  and  I  like  brother  and  sister,  not  man  and  wife.  Put  off 
this  marriage,  papa— say  for  three  years  to  come.  What  differ- 
ence can  it  make  ?  and  I  will  be  twenty  then,  and  beginning  to 
grow  old  and  wise.  I  should  prefer  it — oh,  so  much ;  and  1  am 
sure  Bertie  would  too." 

"Bertie  would  too!"  Her  father  sat  suddenly  upright. 
"Has  he  told  you  so,  Sydney  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no  !  "  Sydney  answered,  laughing  ;  "  he  is  much 
too  polite.  You  need  not  put  on  your  court-martial  face,  Cap- 
tain Owenson  ;  Bertie  hasn't  said  the  least  word  about  it  one 
way  or  other." 

"  One  way  or  other  !  Do  you  mean,  Sydney,  he  hasn't 
spoken  to  you  at  all  since  your  return  ?  " 

"  Was  it  necessary  ? "  Sydney  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly, 
but  not  succeeding  in  keeping  down  the  flush  that  arose  over 
her  face.  "  You  saved  us  all  that  trouble." 

"  Sydney  !  "  Captain  Owenson  cried,  in  a  voice  that  made 
Sydney  jump,  "  there  is  something  more  here  than  I  know  of. 
You  were  willing  enough  all  along,  willing  enough  when  you 
came  home  a  fortnight  ago.  What  does  this  talk  of  breaking 
off  mean  now,  at  the  last  moment  ?  What  have  you  discovered 
about  Bertie  Vaughan  ?" 

"  Nothing,  papa,"  Sydney  came  near  gasping  in  her  alarm  ; 
but  even  in  this  extreme  moment  she  checked  herself.  It  would 
not  be  true,  and  the  simple,  white,  absolute  truth  came  ever 
from  Sydney  Owenson's  lips. 

"You  were  willing  enough  a  week  ago,"  her  father  repeated. 
"  What  have  you  discovered  about  Bertie  now  ?  " 

"  I  was  willing  enough  because  I  had  not  thought  the  matter 
.over,"  Sydney  answered,  her  voice  tremulous.  "  Papa,  I — I  don't 
care  for  Bertie — in  that  way." 

"  In  what  way  ?  Falling  in  love,  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  if  that 
be  all — pooh  !  A  very  good  thing  for  you  too ;  the  love  that 
will  come  after  marriage  will  be  all  the  safer  to  last.  Are  you 
sure,  quite  sure,  there  is  no  other  reason  than  this?" 

"  I  think  it  is  reason  enough,"  retorted  Sydney,  a  trifle  indig- 


"ffIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."      147 

nantly.     "  I  ma}-  be  romantic  if  you  like,  but  I  should  like  to — 
to  love  the  man  I  am  going  to  marry." 

Captain  Owenson  lay  back  and  laughed,  the  thunder-cloud 
quite  gone.  For  a  moment  he  had  been  startled  (boys  will  be 
boys,  you  know),  but  alter  all  it  was  only  a  school-girl's  senti 
mental  nonsense.  He  patted  the  fair  flax-head  as  he  might  a 
child's. 

"And  this  is  all  !  Well,  I'm  very  glad.  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  reading  romances  in  the  Chateauroy  Pensionnat. 
Love,  indeed  !  Well,  why  not  ?  he's  a  tall  and  proper  fellow 
enough,  a  young  gentleman  of  the  period,  with  all  the  modern 
improvements  ;  parts  his  hair  in  the  middle,  wears  a  nice  little 
moustache,  and  an  eye  glass,  lemon  kids,  and  a  cane.  He  can 
sing,  he  can  waltz,  can  dress  with  the  taste  of  a  Beau  Brummell, 
and  has  a  profile  as  straight  as  a  Greek's.  Now,  what  more 
can  any  young  woman  of  the  present  day  desire  in  a  husband  ? 
What  is  to  hinder  your  loving  him  to  distraction  if  you  wish, 
since  that  is  a  sine  qua  non  ?  It  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"  No,  I  daresay  not,"  Sydney  thought,  her  eyes  filling  sud 
denly.  "  Miss  De  Courcy  finds  it  easy  enough,  very  likely. 
Oh  !  how  cruel  papa  is  ! " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  don't  speak,"  her  father  went  on,  bend- 
ing down  to  catch  "sight  of  her  face;  "are  you  listening  to 
what  I  say  ?  it  ought  not  to  be  difficult." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  I  don't,  and — that  is  all." 

"  What !  cheeks  flushed,  eyes  full,  and  voice  trembling.  Syd- 
ney 1  what  is  this  ?  Is  the  thought  of  marrying  Bertie  Vaughan 
so  hateful  to  you  ?  Have  you  let  things  go  on  only  to  throw 
him  over  at  the  eleventh  hour  ?  Is  this  only  a  girl's  caprice, 
or  is  there  some  reason  at  the  bottom  of  it  all?  Speak,  and  tell 
me  the  truth.  If  he  is  unworthy  of  you  I  would  sooner  see 
)ou  dead  than  his  wife.  But — if  he  is,  by — ,"  a  tremendous 
quarter-deck  oath,  "he  shall  repent  it  !" 

There  it  was.  If  she  told  the  truth  she  would  ruin  Bertie's 
life  forever — if  she  did  not  tell  it  she  ruined  her  own.  Tell, 
she  could  not,  no  matter  what  the  cost  to  herself. 

"  Oh,  papa,  how  cross  you  are  !  "  she  said,  in  a  petulant  voice, 
that  she  knew  would  bring  him  down  from  his  heroics ;  "  and  I 
wi>h  you  wouldn't  swear.  It's  ill  bred,  besides  being  wicked." 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  Sydney,"  he  said,  suddenly;  "so  it  is. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.  I  beg — His  !  " 

lie  lifted  his  smoking-cap  reverently,  then  sank  back  in  his 
chair. 


148      "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD." 

"  Dearest,  best  old  papa  !  "  Sydney  cried,  touched  with  con 
trition,  jumping  up  and  flinging  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "  1 
am  a  wretch  for  worrying  you  with  my  silly  fidgets.  You're  a 
gentleman  and  a  sailor — that  you  are,  every  inch.  After  all, 
what's  the  odds  ?  Lord  Dundreary  says,  one  woman's  as  good 
as  another,  if  not  better — I  don't  see  why  the  same  rule 
shouldn't  apply  to  men.  If  I  must  marry  somebody,  whether 
or  no,  then  I  may  as  well  marry  Bertie  since  it  will  please  you. 
I  know  him,  anyhow,  that  is  one  comfort.  Cecilia  Leonard 
eloped  from  school  with  a  young  lawyer  of  the  town  two  weeks 
after  she  was  first  introduced  to  him,  and  she  told  me  when  she 
came  back  that  she  was  three  months  married  before  she  was 
properly  acquainted  with  her  husband.  Now  I  am  acquainted 
with  Bertie,  and  won't  have  the  trouble  of  cultivating  him  when 
I'm  his  wife." 

"  And  he  isn't  a  bad  sort  of  young  fellow,  as  young  fellows 
go,"  her  father  added,  thoughtfully  ;  "  not  any  more  brains 
than  the  law  allows — your  sharp  little  head  has  found  that  out 
for  itself,  I  suppose,  my  dear.  He  never  would  make  his  way 
in  the  world  alone  ;  but  dropping  into  my  shoes,  he'll  make  you 
a  good  husband,  I  think,  my  dear — a  kind  one,  a  faithful  one, 
and  a  very  excellent  country  squire.  As  you  say,  we  know 
him,  and  I  like  the  lad.  He  has  been  brought  up  to  consider 
you  his  wife,  and  The  Place  his  home  for  life,  and  it  would  not 
be  quite  the  thing  to  throw  him  over  now.  He  has  no  profes- 
sion, and  it  is  a  little  late  in  the  day  to  learn  one  ;  besides,  he 
isn't  clever,  and  I  don't  believe  could  earn  his  salt  if  he  were  a 
lawyer  or  a  doctor  to-morrow.  And  he  is  fond  of  you,  little  one 
— don't  get  any  foolish  sentimental  notions  into  your  head  to 
the  contrary  ;  and,  for  pity's  sake,  Sydney,  don't  be  an  exacting 
wife,  don't  expect  too  much  from  your  husband.  He  doesn't 
speak  to  you,  perhaps,  because  he  takes  it  all  for  granted. 
Very  likely  he  takes  to  much  for  granted,  but  that  is  easily  set 
aright." 

"  Papa !  "  Sydney  cried  out  in  alarm,  at  his  smile  and  tone, 
"you  won't  speak  to  him  about  this  !  You  won't  tell  him  to — 
to  speak  to  me  ?  Oh  !  I  should  die  of  shame." 

"Foolish  child!  As  if  I  would  ever  cheapen  my  darling's 
value,  or  make  her  blush.  Trust  me,  Sydney.  For  the  rest, 
when  I  am  gone,  if  you  were  not  Vaughan's  wife,  you  might  fall 
a  victim  to  some  subtle-tongued  fortune-hunter ;  for  you  know 
you  will  be  very  rich,  my  dear,  and  your  poor  mother  has  no 
more  worldly  wisdom  than  a  babe.  Bertie  is  not  a  brilliant 


"HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD  ."     149 

match — not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  I  would  have  had  him — but 
he  is  ours,  and  we  like  him.  I  think  he  will  make  you  a  tender 
husband,  and  the  fortune-hunters,  by-and-by,  will  have  no 
chance.  Believe  me.  it  is  better  as  it  is." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Sydney  sighs,  hopelessly — fate  seems 
closing  around  her,  and  it  is  of  no  use  to  struggle.  "  Forgive 
me  for  troubling  you,  papa  ;  I  won't  do  it  again." 

"  There  is  only  one  tiling  in  the  world  that  can  trouble  me  very 
greatly,"  her  father  answers,  "  and  that  is  to  see  my  little  girl  un- 
hap, ))'.  Are  the  doubts  all  gone,  and  will  you  take  Bertie,  or " 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  think  best,  papa,"  is  her  answer,  and 
then  he  holds  her  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  Heaven  bless  my  good  girl ! "  he  says,  softly.  "  Now  go  to 
bed  ;  it  is  close  upon  one  o'clock." 

Sydney  goes,  a  glow  at  her  heart.  After  all,  just  doing  one's 
duty  and  simply  obeying  brings  its  own  reward.  She  is  quite 
happy  as  she  kneels  by  the  bedside  to  whisper  her  innocent 
prayers.  It  must  be  all  right,  since  she  is  sacrificing  her  own 
will  to  please  her  father — since  she  is  pleasing  her  father  on 
earth,  shemust  be  pleasing  her  Father  in  heaven.  For  Bertie, 
she  will  be  to  him  a  wife  so  devoted,  she  will  give  him  a  heart  so 
tender  and  true,  that  she  will  surely  make  him  happy,  surely 
wean  him  from  all  passing  fancies  for  other  women.  And  so, 
with  a  smile  on  herllips,  she  falls  asleep  like  a  little  child. 

But  Captain  Owenson  lies  awake  long  that  night,  thinking. 
One  result  of  his  cogitations  he  gives  them  at  breakfast  next 
morning.  Sydney  shall  welcome  her  friend  with  a  party,  and 
introduce  her  to  the  best  Wychcliffe  society.  The  stately  old 
sailor  has  all  an  Arab's  notion  of  hospitality.  He  likes  quiet, 
but  he  is  ready  to  throw  his  house  out  of  the  windows  any  day 
to  please  the  guest  who  breaks  his  bread. 

"Not  a  large  gathering,  you  know?"  he  says;  "just  an  off- 
hand affair — say  Thursday  next.  You  and  mamma  can  make 
out  your  list  this  morning  and  have  them  delivered  before  night. 
That  will  give  four  days  to  prepare — quite  enough  in  this  primi- 
tive neighborhood,  I  should  say." 

"  Papa,  I  do  think  you  hare  the  most  beautiful  inspiration  !" 
cries  Sydney,  with  a  radiant  face.  "  How  did  you  know  Cyrilla 
and  1  were  pining  for  a  party  ?  " 

She  goes  to  work  delightedly  the  moment  breakfast  is  ovtr. 

"Come  and  help  me,  Bertie,"  she  calls,  brightly;  and  when 
Bertie  comes  makes  place  for  him,  with  a  depth  of  shining  wel- 
come in  her  eyes  he  likes,  but  does  not  at  all  understand. 


ISO     "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD.'1* 

He  never  will  understand  her  :  her  nature  is  as  far  above  hii 
as  the  sunlit  sky  above  the  snow-whitened  earth  out-doors. 
She  thinks,  as  he  sits  beside  her: 

"  He  is  the  one  man  of  all  men  I  am  ever  to  care  for.  I 
want — oh,  I  do  want  to  make  him  happy." 

The  invitations  are  all  written  and  all  dispatched.  Then  she 
and  Miss  Hendrick  go  off  and  hold  a  pow-wow  on  the  subject 
of  feathers  and  wampum — of  their  dresses  and  adorning,  that 
is  to  say.  Aunt  Char  descends  to  consult  with  Katy,  the  cook  ; 
and  Captain  Owenson  waylays  Bertie,  his  hat  on  his  head,  his 
cloak  over  his  shoulders,  his  stick  in  his  hand. 

"The  morning's  fine,  Bertie,"  he  says.  "I'll  take  your  arm 
for  a  turn  on  the  piazza." 

So  they  go  ;  Bertie  with  much  greater  alacrity  than  he  would 
have  shown  yesterday.  He  has  shaken  off  Dolly's  gyves  of  steel, 
or  so  he  thinks,  and  is  about  to  slip  on  his  wrists  those  of  Sydney. 
He  is  the  son-in-law  of  Owenson  Place,  and  is  prepared  to  be- 
have as  such. 

The  ground  is  white  with  snow,  beginning  to  melt  and  run  in 
little  rivulets  in  the  heat  of  the  noon  sun.  They  walk  slowly 
up  and  down,  talking  of  many  things,  and  it  is  apropos  of  noth- 
ing and  rather  suddenly  that  the  elder  man  at  last  looks  in  the 
younger  man's  face  and  asks  : 

"  Bertie,  Sydney's  been  home  over  a  week.  Have  you  and  she 
settled  upon  your  wedding-day  ?  " 

Bertie  starts,  colors,  as  usual,  and  shrinks  from  meeting  those 
keen,  steely  eyes. 

"  Really,"  he  laughs,  "  I  don't  believe  we  have.  I  didn't  like 
to  hurry  her,  but  I — I  must  ask  her  this  week." 

"  Because,"  pursues  the  Captain,  setting  his  lips,  "  she  has 
grown  tired  of  the  engagement  and  wants  to  break  it  off." 

"Wants  to" — Bertie  paused  aghast — "wants  to  break  it  off! 
Sydney  ! " 

The  idea  is  so  absolutely  new  that  he  cannot  for  a  moment 
take  it  in.  He  may  rlirt,  may  play  fast  and  loose  with  his  fetters, 
may  contemplate  even  running  away  with  somebody  else,  but 
for  Sydney  to  want  to  break  with  him — Sydney  !  No,  he  gives 
it  up ;  he  cannot  realize  it. 

"  She  spoke  to  me  last  night,"  goes  on  her  father  ;  "  urged  me 
in  the  strongest  terms  to  make  an  end  of  the  proposed  marriage. 
She's  not  in  love  with  you,  it  seems,  and  has  some  girlish  notions 
of  the  desirability  of  that  emotion  in  connection  with  the  mai« 
ried  state.  Of  course,  I  could  never  think  of  forcing  her  in- 


"HIS  HONOR    ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."     151 

clination,"  pursues  this  artful  old  seaman,  carelessly  ;  "and  it  is 
never  too  late  to  draw  back  before  the  ring  is  absolutely  on. 
She  would  prefer  it — she  even  appeared  to  hint  that  she  thought 
you  would  prefer  it  too." 

"She  is  mistaken,"  cries  Bertie,  thoroughly  startled,  thor- 
oughly alarmed  ;  "  greatly  mistaken,  altogether  mistaken.  Give 
up  your  marrriage  ?  Good  Heaven  !  Captain  Owenson,  you 
will  not  listen  to  such  a  thing  as  that  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  like  a  new  revelation  now  that  it  was 
brought  before  him  from  the  lips  of  another.  Sydney  wanting 
to  throw  him  over — his  little  Sydney !  And  then  Owenson 
Place  and  all  his  hopes  for  life  !  Bertie  Vaughan  actually  turned 
pale. 

"You  won't  listen  to  what  Sydney  says,"  he  pleads  ;  "she 
doesn't  know  her  own  mind.  Not  love  me  ?  Well,  of  course 
not,  she  hasn't  had  a  chance ;  we  have  been  separated  for  the 
last  five  years.  I  was  so  sure  it  was  all  right  that  I  didn't  pes- 
ter her  with  love-making.  I  was  so  sure " 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  daresay,  a  little  too  sure,  perhaps.  It  doesn't  do 
to  take  too  much  for  granted  where  a  woman  is  in  the  question, 
be  she  seventeen  or  seven-and-thirty,"  says  the  cynical  captain. 

"  But  it  isn't  too  late  yet,"  goes  on  Mr.  Vaughan,  in  hot  haste. 
I'll  talk  to  Sydney  ;  I'll  convince  her  of  her  mistake.  /  want 
to  break  off  the  engagement !  By  Jove,  what  could  have  put  so 
preposterous  an  idea  into  her  head  !  " 

"  Yes,  what  indeed  !  That's  for  you  to  find  out,  my  lad.  She 
seemed  tolerably  convinced  of  it  too." 

"  It's  Miss  Hendrick's  work,"  exclaimed  Bertie,  resentfully  ; 
"confouna  her  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  as  the  captain  turned 
savagely  upon  him.  "  I  know  she's  your  guest  and  Sydney's 
friend,  but  a  serpent  on  the  hearth  to  you  and  a  false  friend  to 
Sydney  if  she  tries  to  poison  her  mind  against  me.  Of  herself, 
Sydney  would  never  have  thought  of  so  absurd  a  thing.  Miss 
Hendrick  dislikes  me,  and  I  must  say  it — I  dislike  her.  She 
knows  it  too,  and  this  is  her  revenge." 

"  Be  good  enough  to  leave  Miss  Hendrick's  name  out  of  the 
question,  if  you  please,"  say  the  seigneur  of  Owenson  Place 
in  his  most  ducal  manner.  "  As  you  say,  she  is  mj  guest, 
and  nothing  disparaging  shall  be  spoken  of  her  in  my  presence." 

"At  least  I  will  go  at  once  and  speak  to  Sydney,"  says 
Bertie,  excitedly — "at  once  !  It  is  intolerable  to  me,  that  she 
should  remain  one  moment  with  so  false  an  idea  in  her  mind," 

But  the  captain  holds  in  this  impetuous  wooer. 


IS*     "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD." 

"Softly,  my  lad— softly,"  he  says,  and  he  laughs  in  his  sleeve 
at  the  diplomatic  manner  in  which  he  has  attained  his  end  ; 
"  there's  no  hurry.  Sydney  won't  run  away,  and  if  you  speak 
to  her  to-day,  aye,  or  to-morrow  either,  she  will  suspect  I  have 
been  speaking  to  you.  Let  me  see.  Suppose  you  wait  until 
the  night  of  the  party,  making  yourself  as  agreeable  as  may  be 
in  the  meantime.  Then  broach  the  subject  of  the  approaching 
t  nuptials,  get  her  to  name  the  day,  and  convince  her  of  your 
undying  devotion  if  you  can.  H'm  !  What  you  say  is  very  true, 
my  lad  ;  those  maples  do  want  thinning  out." 

A  significant  squeeze  of  the  arm — Bertie  looks  around  be- 
wildered by  this  sudden  change  from  matrimony  to  maples,  and 
sees  Sydney  and  Cyrilla  approaching.  The  question  of  their 
respective  toilettes  has  been  settled ;  they  are,  in  hats  and 
jackets,  en  route  to  WychclifTe,  shopping. 

May  Bertie  be  their  escort  ?  He  looks  eagerly  at  Sydney, 
and  Sydney  glances  suspiciously  at  her  papa.  Surely,  papa, 
after  his  promise  too,  has  not But  no  ;  papa  looks  inno- 
cent and  unconscious  as  some  playful  lambkin. 

No,  he  may  not  be  their  escort,  Sydney  answers  ;  the  subject 
of  shades  and  textures  is  altogether  too  important  to  be  inter- 
fered with  by  the  talk  of  a  frivolous  young  man.  So  he  stays, 
nothing  loath,  for  the  truth  is,  he  is  mortally  afraid  of  meeting 
Dolly  face  to  face  in  the  Wychcliffe  streets.  And  then,  as  that 
face  arises  before  him,  rosy,  laughing,  charming,  a  face  he  must 
never  see  or  dream  of  again,  he  strikes  into  a  path  among  the 
maples,  with  a  sort  of  groan.  If  he  could  only  care  for  Sydney 
as  he  cares  for  Dolly — little  wild  *butlaw  that  she  is  !  Ben 
Ward  will  marry  her  no  doubt  one  day — hang  Ben  Ward.  And 
the  odds  are.  she  will  make  no  end  of  a  row,  insist  on  seeing 
Sydney  it  may  be,  or  the  captain,  telling  her  story,  showing  his 

letters Oh  !  gracious  powers  !  not  that !     At  any  cost  she 

must  be  kept  quiet,  and  these  fatal  letters  got  back.  What  a 
hideous  scrape  he  has  got  himself  into  ;  how  is  he  to  get  out  of 
it  ?  One  whisper  of  the  truth,  and  he  will  be  expelled  Owen- 
son  Place — disgraced  and  ruined  for  life.  To  keep  Dolly  quiet 
will  be  no  easy  matter,  for  she  is  fond  of  him.  not  a  doubt  of 
that.  He  groans  dismally  again  as  he  thinks  of  it.  She  will 
not  resign  her  claim  upon  him  without  a  struggle.  After  all, 
swerving  from  the  straight  path  of  honor  and  rectitude  may  be 
very  fine  fun  for  awhile,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  pay  in  the  end. 
If  he  had  kept  his  faith  with  Sydney  intact,  what  a  deuce  of  a 
worry  it  would  have  saved  him  now. 


"HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD."     153 

He  thought  until  his  head  ached,  but  he  could  think  of  no 
way  out  of  his  troubles.  Then  in  weary  disgust  he  gave  it  up, 
and  lit  a  cigar.  It  was  of  no  use  turning  his  hair  gray  think- 
ing ;  something  would  turn  up — something  always  turned  up 
when  things  were  at  their  worst.  He  must  get  out  of  this  mo- 
rass somehow ;  there  would  be  no  end  of  lies  to  tell,  but  Mr. 
Vaughan  did  not  stick  at  a  lie  or  two  in  a  difficulty.  He  must 
appease  Dolly  in  some  way — get  her  out  of  Wychcliffe  until  the 
wedding  was  over.  After  that  he  didn't  care.  Sydney  and  her 
fortune  would  be  his.  Dolly  might  say  and  do  what  she  pleased. 
Between  this  and  the  night  of  the  party  he  would  do  the  duti- 
ful to  Miss  Owenson,  avoid  the  town  and  the  theatre.  After 
that — but  after  that  had  not  come ;  time  enough  to  think  of  it 

when  it  did. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Thursday  night.  Vehicles  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  rattling  up 
under  the  frosty  sky  to  Captain  Owenson's  hospitable  front 
door.  The  house  is  all  alight  from  basement  to  attic — wonders 
have  been  done  in  four  days.  A  tolerably  large  company  had 
been  invited,  the  upper  skimmings,  of  course,  of  country  so- 
ciety ;  and  a  "  good  time  "  was  confidently  looked  forward  to. 
For  though  Captain  Owenson  did  not  do  this  sort  of  thing  often, 

he  did  do  it  when  he  did  do  it. 

******* 

"They  hav'n't  invited  you,  Dolly,  have  they?  No,  I  sup- 
pose they  hav'n't.  No  more  have  they  me.  Well,  the  loss  is 
theirs,  let  that  console  us,"  remarked  casually  Mr.  Benjamin 
Ward,  escorting  home  Miss  Dolly  De  Courcy  that  same  event- 
ful night. 

"Invited  me  where?  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about.  Who  ever  invites  me  anywhere  ?  "  retorted  Miss  De 
Courcy. 

Dolly  is  looking  thin,  and  her  bright  bloom  of  color  has 
faded.  Her  piquant  face  has  taken  an  anxious,  watchful  look 
of  late — that  longing,  waiting  look  which  is  one  of  the  most 
pathetic  on  earth.  Since  the  night  of  the  "  School  for 
Scandal  "  she  has  seen  nothing  of  Bertie  Vaughan — absolutely 
nothing. 

"  Why,  to  Miss  Owenson's  '  small  and  early,'  of  course. 
Hav'n't  you  heard  of  it  ?  All  the  upper  crust  of  Wychcliffe 
are  bidden  to  the  feast ;  you  and  I,  my  Dolly,  alone  left  out  in 
the  cold." 

"  Miss  Owenson  1 "  At  sound  of  that  dreaded  and  detested 
7* 


154     "HIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD* 

nam:  Dolly  looks  quickly  up.  "Is  Miss  Owenson  giving  a 
party  ?  "  she  asks.  "  When  ?  " 

"  To-night.  Nothing  very  extensive,  you  know.  Wine  and 
sweet  cake,  cards  and  music,  dancing  and  tea.  Miss  Sunder- 
land's  going — saw  her  yesterday,  and  she  told  me  about  it. 
Deuced  shabby  of  them  to  leave  me  out;  but  it's  all  the  doing^ 
of  the  '  Fair  One  with  the  Golden  Locks,'  "  says  Mr.  Ward  with 
calm  indifference. 

Dolly  says  nothing,  but  Ward  hears  her  breath  come  quick, 
The  cold,  piercing  November  moonlight  falls  on  her  face,  and 
he  sees  that  frown  of  jealous  pain  and  anger  that  never  used 
to  be  there. 

"  It's  of  no  use,  Dolly,"  he  says,  not  unkindly,  "of  no  use 
waiting  for  Vaughan  any  more.  He  won't  come." 

"  Who  says  he  won't  ?  "  Dolly  cries,  angrily.  "  What  do  you 
know  about  it  ?  You  only  wish  he  may  not.  He  will  come." 

"  He  never  will.  He  is  going  to  marry  the  captain's  daugh- 
ter, he  won't  marry  you.  He  likes  you  best — maybe — it  isn't 
in  him  to  like  anybody  but  his  own  lovely  seit  very  strongly, 
but  all  the  same,  he  won't  marry  you.  You  needn't  keep  that 
look-out  for  him,  Dolly,  that  '  light  in  the  window,'  any  more. 
He — never — will — come,  "  asseverates  Mr.  Ward,  a  solemn 
pause  between  each  little  word. 

She  does  not  speak.  She  sets  her  teeth  hard  together,  and 
her  hands  clench  under  her  shawl. 

"  Give  him  up,  Doll,"  says  the  young  mill-owner,  good  na- 
turedly  ;  "  let  him  take  his  heiress  and  have  done  with  him. 
He  isn't  worth  one  thought  from  so  true-hearted  a  little  woman 
as  you.  Give  him  up  and  marry  me." 

She  looks  up  at  him  with  haggard  eyes,  that  have  a  sort  of 
weary  wonder  in  them. 

~"  Would  you  marry  me,  Ben,  knowing  how — how  fond  I  am 
of  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  would  come  all  right,"  responds  Ben,  with  his 
usual  cheerful  philosophy.  "  I'd  be  good  to  you,  and  fond  of 
you,  and  women  are  uncommon  that  way ;  married  women,  I 
mean  ;  they  always  take  to  a  man  that  is  good  to  'em. 
Men  don't ;  but  then  husbands  and  wives  are  different  some- 
how." 

Mr.  Ward  pauses  a  moment  to  ruminate  on  this  idea,  but  it 
Is  too  complicated  for  him  and  he  gives  it  up. 

"Say,  Dolly,  stop  thinking  of  Vaughan,  he's  a  sneak  anyhow, 
and  leave  the  stage  and  marry  me.  Marry  me  trie  day  he 


"HTS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR.  STOOD."     155 

marries  Miss  Owenson — there  will  be  a  triumph  for  you,  if  you 
like  !  "  cries  Ben,  in  a  glow  of  happy  inspiration. 

But  her  lips  set,  and  her  eyes  keep  their  haggard  look. 

"  Thank  you,  Ben,"  she  says,  huskily ;  you're  a  good  fellow, 
a  great  deal  too  good  for  me,  but  I  can't  do  it,  I  can't  give  him 
up.  I  know  he's  what  you  say,  only  I'd  rather  you  didn't  say 
it.  I  know  I  can't  trust  him,  all  the  same  I  can't  give  him  up. 
And  he  sha'n't  marry  Miss  Owenson.  No!"  her  black  eyes 
blaze  up  with  swift  flame,  "  not  if  the  wedding-day  was  to-mor- 
row. Her  father's  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  I'll  go  to  him, 
I'll  go  to  her,  and  I'll  tell  them  both  what  will  stop  the  wedding. 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Ben — I  can't  help  it,  I  wish  I  could. 
And  don't  trouble  yourself  to  come  home  with  me  any  more 
during  the  few  nights  I  play  ;  it  isn't  worth  while.  You  can 
never  get  any  better  than  a  '  thank  you '  and  a  shake-hands  for 
your  pains. 

"  I'll  take  them  then,  and  see  you  home  all  the  same,"  is 
Ben's  answer  ;  "  but  I  wish  you  would  think  again  of  this." 

"  If  I  thought  till  the  day  I  die,  it  could  make  no  difference. 
If  I  can't  be  Bertie  Vaughan's  wife — and  he  has  promised  me  I 
shall — it  doesn't  much  matter  whether  I  am  ever  anybody's  at 
all  or  not." 

"  That  for  his  promise  !  "  cries  Ward,  contemptuously. 
"  Dolly,  you're  an  awful  little  fool  !  " 

"  I  know  it,  Ben,"  answers  Dolly,  quite  humbly.  "  I  can't 
help  it,  though.  Don't  come  any  farther,  please.  I  am  at 
home  now." 

"  And  you'll  never  marry  me — never  ?     You're  sure  of  it  ?" 

"  I'll  never  marry  you — never.     I'm  sure  of  it.   Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  says  Mr.  Ward,  and  he  pulls  his  hat  over  his 
eyes  and  turns  and  strides  home,  as  if  shod  with  seven-league 
boots.  It  is  all  over,  he  will  never  ask  her  again,  but,  when 
months  and  months  after,  he  asks  the  same  question  of  Mamie 
Sunderland  and  receives  a  very  different  answer,  that  scene  is 
back  before  him,  and  the  gas-lit  drawing-room  "  curtained  and 
close  and  warm,"  wherein  they  cosily  sit,  fades  for  a  second 
away.  The  chill,  steel-blue  moonlight,  the  iron-bound  road, 
the  frostily-winking  stars,  and  Doll/s  miserable  face,  as  she 
says  "good-night,"  are  before  him.  All !  well,  it  would  never 
do  for  men's  wives  to  know  everything. 

She  does  not  enter  the  house.  A  fire,  a  fever  of  impatience 
of  jealous,  sickening  terror  has  taken  hold  of  her.  They  have 
not  invited  her — true  ;  nevertheless  she  will  be  there. 


156     "ffIS  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD" 

She  starts  rapidly  onward,  she  reaches  the  high  white  house, 
and  meets  no  one  on  her  way.  She  ascends  the  portico  steps  ; 
all  is  brilliance  within,  lights  and  music  stream  out.  The  draw- 
ing-room windows  are  open,  chilly  as  is  the  night,  curtains  of 
lace  and  brocatelle  alone  separate  her  from  the  dancers.  No 
one  is  near  ;  she  stands  motionless,  looking  in.  She  sees  him 
almost  at  first  glance — he  is  dancing  with  the  daughter  of  the 
house.  A  fierce  spasm  of  hot  pain  goes  through  the  little  jeal- 
ous actress's  heart.  How  pretty — how  pretty  she  is  !  with  her 
fair,  feathery  hair,  her  blue,  bright  eyes,  her  softly  tinged 
cheeks,  her  sweet,  smiling  lips.  How  prettily  she  is  dressed  in 
palest  pink,  not  a  jewel  about  her,  not  even  a  flower  in  her 
hair,  only  a  rose  ribbon  tying  all  its  brightness  back.  And  he 
— but  Dolly  turns  away  with  a  despairing  gesture,  words  are 
poor  to  describe  him  !  Just  at  the  moment  the  dance  ends, 
and  with  his  partner  on  his  arm,  he  comes  directly  toward  the 
•window  at  which  she  stands.  She  draws  back  in  terror.  There 
is  a  great  stone  urn  close  by  ;  she  crouches  down  behind  this, 
very  close  to  where  they  stand.  Are  they  coming  out  ?  No  ; 
they  remain  in  the  shadow  of  the  curtains,  and  look  out  at  the 
white,  cold  loveliness  of  the  night.  She  sees — as  soon  as  she  is 
able  to  see  anything  distinctly,  for  the  mist  that  is  before  her 
eyes — Bertie  wrapping  a  fleecy  white  scarf  about  his  com- 
panion's shoulders,  hears  (as  soon  as  her  startled  hearing 
returns)  the  tender  tones  of  his  voice.  She  cannot  catch  his 
words  at  first,  so  lowly  and  hurriedly  he  speaks  ;  but  by  her 
drooping  face  and  averted  eyes  she  can  guess  he  is  wooing  his 
bride.  And  she  crouches  listening  here.  A  more  dramatic 
situation  could  hardly  have  been  devised  for  the  Wychcliffe 
Lyceum.  Even  the  accessories  are  not  wanting.  She  out  in 
the  cold  under  the  midnight  sky  ;  they  in  the  rosy  light  and 
perfumed  warmth,  the  dancers  in  the  background,  and  the  slow 
German  waltz  music  over  all.  She  does  not  catch  his  words 
for  a  while,  though  she  strains  her  ears  to  listen.  But  he  raises 
his  voice  presently,  and  she  hears : 

"  Care  for  her.  An  actress  !  Sydney,  what  folly  to  think  of 
me.  I  tell  you  I  care  for  no  one  in  all  the  world  but  you.  I 
hold  your  promise  to  be  my  wife,  and  by  that  promise  I  claim 
you.  You  will  not  retract  your  plighted  word  ?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  will  not,"  she  answers  ;  "  but,  Bertie,  on 
your  honor,  would  you  not  rather  marry  that  actress  than  me?' 

"  You  insult  me  by  the  question,  Sydney.  I  decline  tc 
answer." 


«ff/S  HONOR,  ROOTED  IN  DISHONOR,  STOOD.'1*     157 

"Oh'  nonsense,  Bertie,"  Miss  Owenson  says,  half  laughing; 
"  don't  try  heroics.  It's  a  very  natural  question,  I  think. 
Young  men  don't  blush  at  the  sound  of  a  lady's  name,  noi 
brighten  at  the  sight  of  her  face  for  nothing,  and  I  have  seen 
you  do  both,  sir,  for  Miss  De  Courcy.  Honestly,  now,  you  do 
like  her  better  than  me  ?  " 

"  Do  you  insist  upon  my  saying  yes,  Sydney?  I  see  how  it 
is — you  wish  to  break  off  our  engagement,  and  a  poor  excuse  is 
better  than  none.  Very  well — so  be  it ;  it  shall  never  be  said  I 
forced  your  inclinations,  no  matter  how  deeply  I  suffer  myself." 

He  folded  his  arms  in  a  grand  attitude,  and  stood  drawn  up, 
looking  very  tall  and  slender,  and  affronted  and  cross. 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  sighed  Sydney,  half  laughing,  half  vexed  ; 
"  you  will  do  private  theatricals.  No,  I  don't  want  to  break 
off — it  would  vex  papa ;  and  of  course  everything  is  arranged, 
and  there  would  be  a  dreadful  deal  of  talk.  Besides,  I  like 

you Oh,  nonsense,  Bertie  !  "  impatiently  ;  "  no  tender 

scenes,  if  you  please.  But  if  I  thought  you  cared  for  the 
actress,  or  were  pledged  to  her  in  any  way,  I  wouldn't  marry 
you — no,  not  if  I  died  for  it !  " 

"  Pledged  to  her  1 "  Bertie  repeated,  flushing  guiltily.  "  What 
awful  nonsense." 

"  Well,  yes,  1  suppose  it  is  nonsense.  You  wouldn't  go  that  far 
even There's  Harry  Sunderland  asking  for  me — I  must  go." 

"  Promise  me  first  that  the  last  Thursday  in  November  will 
be  our  wedding-day,"  he  says,  barring  her  way. 

Harry  Sunderland  has  espied  the  rose-pink  robe,  and  is  mak- 
ing for  it.  In  desperation  she  pushes  past  him  and  out. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  she  says,  impatiently  ;  "  as  well 
one  day  as  another.  Whenever  you  like — yes,  the  last  Thurs- 
day, then.  Don't  come  out  just  yet — I  don't  want  Harry  to 
know  I  was " 

"Spooning  here  with  me,"  says  Bertie,  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  says  Sydney,  with  a  little  look  of  disgust ;  "  spooning 
here  with  you.  Don't  appear  upon  the  festive  scene  for  the 
next  ten  minutes." 

She  vanishes.  Bertie  remains,  a  satisfied,  complacent  smile 
on  his  face,  and  regards  the  heavenly  bodies.  For  a  momect 
— then — "private  theatricals"  indeed!  Sydney  ought  to  b^ 
here  to  see  them.  A  dark,  crouching  figure  starts  up  as  if  out 
of  the  ground,  directly  in  front  of  him.  The  streaming  lamplight 
falls  full  upon  an  awfully  familiar  face,  and  a  voice  that  sends 
every  drop  of  traitor  blood  in  his  body  back  (o  his  heart  says  : 

"  Bertie  I " 


158       "HE'S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE." 
CHAPTER  XVI  [. 

"HE'S    SWEETEST   FRIEND    OR   HARDEST   FOE." 

|T  is  Dolly.  White,  unlike  herself,  with  wild  eyes  and 
excited  face,  but — Dolly !  He  stands  for  a  moment 
petrified,  utterly  petrified  by  the  greatness  and  sud- 
denness of  the  surprise.  For  the  time  being  carried 
away  by  the  excitement  of  his  new  wooing,  he  had  absolutely 
forgotten  her  very  existence.  And  now,  like  a  stage  Nemesis, 
like  an  avenging  spirit,  she  stands  here — pale,  menacing,  terrible. 
But  it  is  not  a  stage  Nemesis.  Dolly  is  not  acting  to-night — • 
but  little  of  the  bitter,  jealous  wrath  and  pain  that  fills  her  shows 
in  her  quivering  lips,  her  dark  burning  eyes,  and  the  white  mis- 
ery of  her  face. 

"  Bertie,"  she  says  again.  For,  full  of  anger  and  vengeance 
as  she  is,  something  in  his  face  as  he  stands  there  and  looks 
at  her,  frightens  her.  He  has  started  back,  staring  as  a  man 
who  cannot  believe  his  own  eyes.  Her  voice  breaks  the  spell. 

"  Wait  there,"  he  says. 

He  glances  quickly  backward,  no  one  sees  him,  no  one  is  in 
sight.  He  stoops,  raises  the  window  a  little  higher,  and  steps 
out  upon  the  piazza,  by  her  side. 

The  round  November  moon  is  at  its  zenith,  its  cold,  spectral 
light  glimmers  in  the  ebony  blackness  of  the  trees  on  the  hard, 
frozen  ground,  ringing  like  iron  to  every  sound,  upon  the  glar- 
ing brightness  of  the  house,  upon  the  pale,  stern  faces  of  the 
man  and  woman  who  stand  and  confront  each  other.  Bertie 
Vaughan  wears  a  look  that  few  have  ever  seen  him  wear ;  that 
Dolly  De  Courcy  most  certainly  never  has  before. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  commands,  and  she  obeys  without  a 
word.  A  tumult  of  pain  and  misery  is  within  her  ;  she  feels 
that  she  has  right  on  her  side  ;  in  all  ways  she  is  the  stronger  of 
the  two,  nevertheless  she  is  afraid  of  him  now. 

He  leads  the  way — she  follows.  Beyond  his  name  she  has 
said  nothing  as  yet.  Beyond  that  imperious  "  Come  with  me," 
he  has  said  nothing.  They  leave  the  brightly-lighted  house,  its 
warmth,  its  merriment,  behind  them.  The  music  dies  softly 
away  in  the  distance.  With  the  first  sensation  of  cold  she  has 
felt  yet  the  girl  draws  her  shawl  closer  about  her  as  she  follows 


"ff&S  SWEETEST  FRIEND  OR  HARDEST  FOE.'     159 

Bertie  Vaughan  across  the  wide,  gladelike  expanse  of  lawn  and 
into  the  shadow  of  a  belt  of  trees.  No  one  from  the  house  can 
see  them  here — the  very  moonlight  conies  sifted  in  fine  lances 
through  the  black,  rattling  boughs,  and  here  the  young  man 
stops  and  faces  his  companion. 

"  What  has  brought  you  here  ?  "  is  what  he  says. 

There  is  white,  concentrated  passion  in  his  face,  but  his  voice 
is  barely  raised  above  a  whisper.  She  looks  at  him  fiercely, 
her  head  flung  back,  her  eyes  afire.  It  is  a  capital  stage  atti- 
tude— if  poor  Dolly  were  dying  she  must  still  act. 

"  You  ask  that !  "  she  retorts,  passionately.  "  I  write  to  you 
and  you  do  not  answer.  For  five  whole  days  you  never  come 
near  me — and  you  stand  and  ask  what  brings  me  here  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  ask  ;  and  be  good  enough  to  remember  that  this  is 
not  the  stage  of  Wychcliffe  theatre,  and  that  you're  not  talking 
for  the  pit  and  the  gallery.  Be  kind  enough  to  lower  your 
voice.  I  ask  you  again,  Dolly,  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"And  how  dare  you  ask  it?"  she  cries,  goaded  to  fury. 
"  How  dare  you  stand  there  and  speak  to  me  as  you  are  speak 
ing  ?  What  brings  me  here  ?  Who  has  a  better  right  to  come 
where  you  are  than  I  ?  " 

He  laughs  shortly. 

"The  right  I  grant  you,  if  you  never  want  to  see  or  speak  to 
me  again  as  long  as  you  live.  If  that's  what  you're  after,  you 
couldn't  have  taken  a  better  way." 

She  stands  and  looks  at  him,  shivering,  partly  with  the  cold, 
partly  with  nervous  excitement,  her  eyes  dark  with  terror,  her 
lips  white. 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  stay  away  ?"  she  asks,  "knowing 
you  had  deserted  me  ?  I  waited  five  days,  Bertie — I  wrote  to 
you — you  never  came — you  never  answered.  They  told  me 
you  were  engaged  to  Miss  Owenson — that  the  wedding-day  was 
close  at  hand.  I  knew  there  was  to  be  a  party  here  to-night — 
that  while  I  suffered  misery  and  loneliness  there  in  Wychcliffe, 
you  were  dancing  and  enjoying  yourself  with  her.  And  I  was 
your  promised  wife,  Bertie,  don't  forget  that.  Where  you  were 
I  had  a  right  to  be.  I  came — I  couldn't  stay  away  ;  I  thought 
if  I  could  only  see  you  for  one  minute,  ar.d  hear  you  say  you 
forgave  me  for  what  I  said  that  night  at  the  theatre — oh !  Bertie, 
I  was  sorry— only  hear  you  say  you  weren't  tired  of  me,  and 
hadn't  forgotten  me,  I  would  go  away  again  and  leave  you  to 
enjoy  yourself,  and  ask  no  more.  I  didn't  mean  any  harm — I 
dida't  mean  any  one  to  see  me,  I  only  wanted  to  speak  to  you 


160     "HE'S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE." 

one  minute.  I  went  up  there  by  the  window  with  no  thought 
of  listening;  but  you  came — with  her — and  I — I  overheard — 
every " 

She  had  been  growing  hysterical  as  she  went  on,  her  voice 
choking  and  breaking ;  now  she  stopped,  literally  gasping  foi 
breath.  Violent  hysterics  were,  imminent.  In  horrible  alarm 
Vaughan  seized  her  wrist  in  a  grasp  that  left  a  black  bracelet 
on  the  quivering  flesh  for  a  week. 

"  If  you  make  a  noise — if  you  faint  or  have  hysterics,  Dolly," 
he  cried,  in  a  furious  whisper,  "  I  swear  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again  as  long  as  you  live  !  " 

The  threat  had  its  effect.  A  few  gasping  breaths,  a  few  chok- 
ing sobs,  a  moment's  convulsive  quivering  of  body,  and  the 
perilous  moment  was  past.  Then  a  brief  interval  of  silence, 
during  which  Mr.  Vaughan  relaxed  his  hold,  and  mentally  con-; 
signed  Dolly  to  a  region  where  the  night-air  is  never  chill  ! 

Miss  De  Courcy  leaned  against  a  tree,  her  wretched  face 
hidden  in  her  handkerchief,  her  bosom  still  heaving  with  sup- 
pressed suffocating  sobs. 

"  Now,  Dolly,  look  here,"  begins  Bertie,  his  blonde  brows 
knit,  his  mouth,  under  its  little  flaxen  mustache,  set  in  a  tight, 
unpleasant  line,  "  this  is  all  most  awful  nonsense.  You  have 
come  near  making  the  greatest  blunder  of  your  life  in  coming 
here  to-night.  In  the  first  place  how  did  you  know  there  was 
to  be  a  party  here  at  all  ?  " 

"Ben  Wa — ard  told  me,"  she  answered,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

His  eyes  flashed.  In  the  midst  of  his  anger,  while  wishing 
her  in  the  deepest  depths  of  the  Inferno,  he  could  still  be  jeal- 
ous of  Ward. 

"  So  !  "  he  said  contemptuously,  "  that  fool  is  after  you  yet. 
Sees  you  home  every  night  of  your  life,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  There  is  no  one  else,  Bertie." 

"  All  right — that  is  your  affair.  Mine,  at  present,  is  to  come 
to  an  understanding  with  you  about  to-night's  visit.  Once  and 
for  all,  Dolly,  I'll  have  no  following,  no  spying,  no  dogging  my 
steps,  no  eavesdropping,  no  jealous  scenes.  I  would  no  more 
-marry  a  jealous  woman  than  I  would  shoot  myself.  The  sooner 
you  realize  that  the  better." 

The  handkerchief  fell.  She  looked  up  at  him,  the  miserable, 
quivering  face  lighting  all  at  once  with  hope. 

"  Oh,  Bertie  !     You  do  mean  to  marry  me  then  after  all  ?  " 

Mr.  Vaughan' s  look  of  surprise — of  injured  inocence — wai 
fine. 


"HES  SWEETEST  FRIEND    OR  HARDEST  FOE."     l6l 

"  After  what  '  all '  ?  I  am  a  man  of  honor,  Dolly,  and  as  such 
I  keep  my  word  !  Have  I  not  acted  honorably  toward  you  from 
the  first  ?  Did  I  not  propose  marriage  to  you  a  fortnight  after 
our  first  meeting  ?  Have  I  not  treated  you  in  all  respects  as 
— as  a  lady  ? 

"  You  have — you  have, "  sobbed  Dolly,  her  tears  penitent 
tears  now.  "  O  Bertie,  you  have  been  kind,  been  generous, 
been  noble  toward  me.  I  am  not  your  equal,  I  know — in  sta- 
tion or  education,  and  you  have  treated  me  in  every  way  as  if  I 
were. 

"  Very  well  then,"  pursued  Mr.  Vaughan,  loftily.  "You  can 
imagine,  perhaps,  what  a  blow  to  me  to-night's  escapade  is. 
When  people  are  jealous  of  each  other,  spy  upon  each  other, 
dog  each  other,  it  is  time  those  people  should  part.  When 
confidence  ceases  love  should  end. 

"But,  says  Dolly  piteously,  and  a  trifle  bewildered  by  these 
beautiful  sentiments,  "  I  overheard " 

"  Ah  !  yes,  you  overheard.  You  overheard  what  I  said  to 
Miss  Owenson,  very  likely.  By-the-by,  Dolly,  I  did  not  think 
you  could  stoop  to  eavesdropping.  May  1  ask  what  reason  you 
had  to  be  surprised  at  what  you  heard  ?  " 

"  What  reason  ?  You  ask  her  to  marry  you — denying  that  you 
care  for  me  or  ever  did  ;  make  her  name  the  wedding-day,  and 
— what  reason  have  I  to  be  surprised  !  "  says  Dolly,  putting  her 
hand  in  her  head,  her  brain  in  a  hopeless  muddle. 

"I  explained  all  that.  Call  to  mind  the  night  I  told  you  fully 
how  I  stood  in  regard  to  this  young  lady,  the  obligations  I  was 
under  to  her  father,  how  my  whole  future  depends  upon  his 
bounty,  what  he  expects,  what  she  expects,  the  compact  made 
when  we  were  children,  which  I  always  meant  to  ratify,  which  I 
would  have  ratified  had  I  not  fallen  in  love  with  you.  How, 
until  the  last  moment,  my  intention  was  to  keep  them  in  the 
dark,  hoping  that  the  old  gentleman  might  kindly  die  off  before 
the  wedding-day.  Meantime,  my  full  intention  of  acting  my 
part,  the  better  to  blind  them.  That  I  may  one  day  marry  you,  a 
rich  man,  I  asked  Miss  Owenson  to  name  the  day,  to-night." 
,  Dolly  stands  speechless.  She  looks  up  at  the  moon,  at  the 
stars,  at  the  tree  tops,  at  Mr.  Vaughan's  handsome,  rebuking 
face,  as  he  utters  these  sublimated  sentences,  but  her  dazed  brain 
absolutely  refuses  to  comprehend.  The  more  Bertie  reasons 
the  more  hopelessly  her  senses  reel. 

"  Since  that  night  at  the  theatre  (when  you  so  gratuitously  in- 
sulted me,  Miss  De  Courcy,  in  the  presence  of  that  cad,  Ward) 


162     "HE'S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE." 

some  inkling  of  the  truth  has  come  to  Miss  Owenson's  ears. 
She  is  jealous,  and  to  appease  that  jealousy  I  spare  no  effort. 
Let  one  whisper  reach  her  father,  and  I  am  turned  out  adrift 
upon  the  world,  without  a  home,  a  profession,  a  shilling.  If  he 
dies  before  the  wedding-day  I  am  provided  for,  can  say  good-by 
to  Miss  Owenson,  and  marry  you.  1  hope  you  are  satisfied  now  !  " 

He  asks  his  last  question  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  triumph ; 
his  concluding  arguments  have  evidently  been  clinchers.  But 
Dolly  only  looks  at  him  with  a  piteously  bewildered  face.  She 
must  be  hopelessly  stupid  indeed,  but  the  force  of  all  this  for- 
ensic logic  is  thrown  away  upon  her.  She  is  not  satisfied. 

"  May  I  ask,  says  Mr.  Vaughan,  changing  his  tone,  while 
poor  Dolly  stands  dazed,  "what  you  came  for?  what  you 
intended  to  do  ?  " 

She  lights  up  suddenly,  she  can  understand  that  question  at 
least. 

"  Shall  1  tell  you,  Bertie  ?  "  she  says,  a  flash  of  her  old  fire  in 
eyes  and  voice. 

"  I  ask  for  information,  Dolly." 

"  Then  I  meant  to  have  gone  straight  to  Captain  Owenson, 
to  Miss  Owenson,  and  told  them  my  story,  shown  them  my 
proofs,  and  broken  off  your  marriage.  I  know  it  would  break 
it  off — no  lady  of  honor  would  marry  you  after  reading  your  let- 
ters to  me." 

There  is  an  outbreak  of  triumph  in  her  tone,  but  it  changes 
quickly.  All  through  the  interview  they  have  not  been  in  very 
affectionate  proximity,  but  he  starts  back  two  or  three  paces  at 
these  daring  words,  and  looks  at  her  with  a  glance  that  sends  a 
bolt  of  cold  terror  through  Dolly's  heart. 

"You  did  !"  A  pause,  an  awful  one.  "And  may  I  inquire 
why  you  did  not  carry  out  your  dramatic  intentions,  Miss  De 
Courcy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Bertie,  please  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  and  don't  call 
me  Miss  De  Courcy  !  I — I  didn't  do  it !"  she  says,  with  a  gasp. 

"  No,  you  didn't  do  it.     I  ask  again,  why  ?  " 

"Because — because  I  couldn't,  1  heard  all  you  said,  and  it 
maddened  me,  and  still  I  couldn't.  I  don't  understand  myself; 
I  never  used  to  be  a  coward.  Other  men  have  been  fond  of 
me,  but  I  never  cared  a  pin  whether  I  lost  them  or  not ;  but  J 
am  afraid  of  you." 

The  confession  seems  wrung  from  her  against  her  will.  A 
slight  smile  of  complacent  power  glides  over  his  set  lips  a 
second,  then  it  disappears. 


"HE'S   SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE."     163 

"  Well,  now,  Dolly,"  he  says,  "  for  fear  any  such  temptation 
should  occur  to  you  again,  let  us  understand  one  another. 
There  is  the  house — whenever  expatiating  you  choose  you  can 
see  Captain  Owenson  or  his  daughter  ;  you  can  tell  them  youi 
story — I  shall  deny  nothing  ;  you  can  show  them  my  letters — 
I  will  not  refuse  to  admit  them.  Captain  Owenson  will  at  once 
order  me  from  his  doors  ;  Miss  Owenson  will  probably  never 
see  me  again  while  she  lives.  All  this  you  can  do ;  and  the 
moment  you  do  it — the  moment  a  word  of  our  engagement  gets 
wind  through  you,  and  comes  to  their  ears — that  moment  is  the 
last  you  will  ever  set  eyes  on  me.  I  will  never  see  you  again, 
never  speak  to  you  again,  so  long  as  I  live  !  " 

Another  pause.  All  white  and  speechless,  shrinking,  tremb- 
ling, Dolly  De  Courcy  listens  to  her  doom.  Calm  and  stern  as 
a  stone  Rhadamanthus,  this  youthful  autocrat  goes  on  : 

"If  you  care  for  me,  if  you  ever  want  to  be  my  wife,  you 
must  obey  me  in  what  I  say  to-night.  I  cannot  write  to  you  or 
receive  letters  from  you  without  danger;  I  cannot  visit  you 
without  instant  discovery.  Therefore  I  will  neither  write 
nor  visit  you.  You  will  leave  Wychcliffe  with  the  rest  of 
them,  and  wait  for  me  in  New  York.  When  do  the  company 
go?" 

"  In  a  week,"  Dolly  answers,  with  a  shiver. 

"  Very  well,  you  will  go  with  them ;  I  will  remain  here. 
Captain  Owenson  may  die  any  day  of  heart  disease — may  die 
before  the  last  Thursday  in  November.  If  he  does,  all  is  right ; 
if  he  does  not,  all  will  be  right,  too.  On  the  day  before  the 
wedding  I  will  quietly  leave  Wychcliffe,  join  you  in  New  York, 
and  marry  you  out  of  hand.  I  have  no  more  to  say.  This  is 
my  final  decision.  You  will  abide  by  it  or  not,  as  you  think 
best." 

"  I  am  to  go  with  the  company,  and  see  you  no  more 
until " 

"  Until  the  last  Thursday  in  November — not  quite  two  weeks. 
An  eternity,  certainly  !  "  he  says,  sarcastically. 

"  It  will  seem  so  to  me,  for  all  the  time  I  shall  be  fearing— 
Bertie  !  "  she  cries  out,  "  you  shall  not  marry  her  1  Don't  think 
it.  I  will  never  give  you  up." 

He  turns  to  leave  her. 

"  1  have  no  more  to  say.  All  my  explanations  have  been 
thrown  away.  Do  as  you  please." 

"  Oh,  Bertie,  stay  !  Forgive  me !  I  will  do  as  you  tell  me. 
I  will  trust  you.  Only — only  say  one  kind  word  to  ine  1  Thil 


164     "HE'S  SWEETEST  FRIEND   OR  HARDEST  FOE." 

has  been  a  wretched  night,  and,  indeed,  indeed,  I  am  dreadfully 
miserable." 

Sultan  Bertie  relents.  His  slave  is  in  her  proper  place,  at  his 
feet.  He  can  afford  one  relenting  parting  word. 

"  Don't  be  a  simpleton,  Dolly,"  he  says,  taking  both  her 
hands  in  his.  "  If  I  wasn't  idiotically  fond  of  you,  would  I  risk 
all  my  prospects  in  life  for  you  ?  It  would  be  a  good  deal  bet- 
Tter  for  me  if  I  cared  for  Miss  Owenson  as  I  do  for  you  ;  but  I 
don't  and  can't" — and  here  Bertie  told  the  truth — "and  that's 
an  end  of  the  matter.  You  shall  be  my  wife,  and  no  one  else, 
that  I  promise,  for  the  hundredth  time.  And  now  go,  like  a 
good  child,  and  come  here  no  more.  Leave  with  the  rest,  and 
wait  for  me  in  New  York.  I  shall  see  you  once  again,  by  some 
means,  and  we  shall  have  a  pleasanter  good-by  than  this." 

A  moment  more  and  he  is  alone  under  the  trees.  Out  in  the 
open,  in  the  full  shine  of  the  moon,  a  figure  is  hurrying  toward 
the  gate,  a  figure  in  whose  breast  a  tumult  is  going  on.  Anger 
and  passion  are  spent,  and  deep,  sullen  resolve  has  taken  their 
place.  He  is  deceiving  her — with  the  quick  clairvoyance  of  her 
kind  she  knows  it,  and  she  means  to  be  even  with  him.  He  in- 
tends to  send  her  away  quietly  and  marry  the  heiress  of  all  this 
fine  place.  As  well  as  he  knows  it  himself  she  knows  it  also, 
and  just  as  firmly  as  he  is  resolved  to  succeed  just  as  firmly  she 
is  resolved  he  shall  not. 

He  stands  and  watches  her  out  of  sight.  Half-an-hour  has 
passed  in  the  interview — he  will  be  missed,  he  fears.  He  starts 
rapidly  forward — no  one  is  about.  He  is  congratulating  him- 
self on  Dolly's  safe  and  unseen  exit,  when  he  runs  up  the  portico 
steps  and  comes  full  upon  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

She  is  standing  there  alone,  the  moonlit  expanse,  cold  and  viv- 
idly bright  before  ;  how  long,  who  is  to  tell  ? 

He  is  so  stunned  that  he  stands  before  her  mute.  Of  all  the 
people,  she ! 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Vaughan,"  she  says,  that  malicious  smile  he  has 
learned  to  detest  on  her  lips,  "  I  knew  you  could  not  be  in  the 
house.  I  said  so,  although  Sydney  insisted  that  you  were." 

"  And  you  volunteered  to  come  out  here  in  the  cold  and  look 
for  me  ?  How  kind,"  he  responds,  his  blue  eyes  glittering  with 
hatred. 

"Oh,  dear,  no;  don't  flatter  yourself,"  Cyrilla  says,  with  the 
airiest  of  laughs  ;  "  the  parlors  were  oppressive,  and  I  never  take 
cold.  The  moonlight  looked  so  inviting  that  I  have  been  here 
fully  ten  riinutes  enjoying  the  prospect.  And  I  have  enjoyed 


"THE  FEAST  IS    SET*  165 

it,"  says  Miss  Hendrick,  with  slow  emphasis,  smiling  up  in  his 
face.  "  I  can  only  regret  that  Sydney  was  not  to  be  coaxed  to 
come  out  with  me  and  enjoy  it  too." 

"  But  you  can  describe  it  to  her,"  suggests  Bertie,  in  a  hissing 
sort  of  whisper.  "  I  can  imagine  you  really  must  be  good  at  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  every  end  will  be  answered  as  well. 

"  No,"  Cyrilla  laughs  ;  "  I  differ.  You  flatter  me — I  am  not 
at  all  good  at  that  sort  of  thing,  you  mean  describing  what  I  see, 
don't  you  ?  I  never  look  for  other  people  ;  let  every  one  use 
her  own  eyes.  Will  you  give  me  your  arm  back,  Mr.  Vaughan  ? 
I  find  I  have  had  enough  of  moonshine.  I  hope  Sydney  is  not 
inclined  to  be  jealous — she  may  actually  think  we  have  been 
flirting  here  on  the  steps." 

"  Sydney  will  never  be  jealous  of  me,"  says  Sydney's  affianced, 
with  elaborate  carelessness,  "if  she  is  left  to  herself.  There  is 
nothing  small,  or  prying,  or  suspicious  about  her" 

The  personal  pronoun  is  fiercely  italicized,  the  gauntlet  of  de- 
fiance is  openly  Hung  at  her  feet.  Miss  Hendrick  lifts  her  big 
black  eyes  and  laughs  in  his  face,  a  laugh  of  most  unaffected, 
thorough  appreciation,  good  humor  and  enjoyment.  And  Mr. 
Vaughan  looks  down  upon  her  hanging  on  his  arm  and  thinks 
what  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  meet  her  by  moonlight  alone,  in 
some  nice,  shady  nook,  and  murder  her  in  cold  blood. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
"THE    FEAST   is    SE T." 

[NE — two — three — four,  on  lightning  wings  the  days  go 
by.  In  mad  haste  they  scamper  over  each  othePs 
heels,  frantic  to  quit  time  for  eternity.  Like  flashes 
they  come  and  go.  This  is  what  Sydney  and  Sydney's 
mamma  think  at  least,  hurried  and  busy  with  their  preparations 
for  the  fast  coming  nuptials,  only  seven  days  off  now. 

To  the  bridegroom  they  lag — lag  horribly.  While  the  same 
town  contains  Dolly  De  Courcy  and  Sydney  Owenson,  what 
peace  can  there  be  for  him  ?  She  has  promised  to  trust  him, 
and  go  quietly  ;  but  there  is  no  putting  confidence  in  a  woman. 
Every  day  takes  Sydney  and  her  obnoxious  friend  into  Wych- 
cliife — every  da}-  takes  Dolly  there  for  rehearsal.  Who  is  to 


1 66  "THE  FEAST  73    SET? 

tell  him  what  hour  may  bring  them  together.  What  hour  Dolly 
may  "up"  and  tell  them  the  whole  story.  As  strongly  as  he 
had  set  his  shifting  heart  upon  marrying  Dolly  a  fortnight  ago, 
just  as  strongly  has  he  set  it  now  upon  marrying  Sydney. 
There  is  no  love  in  the  question,  not  a  jot ;  it  is  simply  a 
matter  of  money;  it  is,  as  he  tells  himself,  that  his  summer's 
madness  is  at  an  end;  that  he  is  "clothed  and  in  his  right 
mind  "  once  more. 

During  those  four  dragging  lagging  days  he  raises  Miss  De 
Courcy  to  the  pinnacle  of  bliss  by  two  visits ;  he  soothes  her 
with  sweet  words  and  sugared  promises.  She  is  very  quiet, 
dangerously  quiet,  if  Bertie  did  but  know  it.  She  takes  her 
sweetmeats  from  her  master's  hand,  and  says  very  little.  And 
the  fourth  day  comes,  and  by  the  morning  train  the  whole 
company,  leading  lady  of  course  included,  leave  Wychcliffe. 
Leave,  positively  leave.  Bertie  risks  all  things,  gets  out  of  bed 
at  the  unhallowed  hour  of  seven,  in  the  cold  gray  of  the  frosty 
November  morning,  and  appears,  blue  and  shivering,  upon  the 
platform  to  see  them  off.  But  even  this  proof  of  self-sacrificing 
devotion  does  not  take  Dolly  in.  She  smiles  sarcastically  as 
she  shakes  hands  with  him,  and  sees  through  his  little  artifice 
in  a  moment.  She  is  unaffectedly  glad  to  see  him  too — her 
dark  face  lights  up,  and  she  looks  at -him  as  Bertie  Vaughan 
most  certainly  does  not  deserve  to  be  looked  at  by  any  woman 
on  earth.  Then  they  are  in  their  places.  What  a  long  breath 
of  infinite  relief  it  is  that  Mr.  Vaughan  draws ;  she  waves  her 
hand  to  him  from  the  window,  looks  at  him  with  two  solemn 
black  eyes,  and  says  in  her  deepest  Lady  Macbeth  voice  : 

"  REMEMBER  ! " 

It  reminds  Bertie  of  Charles  the  First  on  the  scaffold,  and  he 
laughs. 

"  All  right,  Dolly,"  he  says.  "  By -by."  and  the  lovers'  part- 
ing is  over. 

He  goes  home,  and  is  in  wild  high  spirits  all  the  rest  of  the 
day.  He  holds  forth  at  breakfast  upon  the  beauty  and  expe- 
diency of  the  "healthy,  wealthy  and  wise"  principle  of  early 
rising.  To  get  up  by  gaslight  on  a  bitter  fall  morning,  to  cracic 
the  ice  in  your  wash  basin,  and  to  plunge  off  for  a  three  mile 
walk,  is  the  acme  of  earthly  bliss.  Breakfast  over,  he  insists 
upon  escorting  his  affianced  and  her  friend  into  town  to  do 
their  diurnal  shopping  ;  10  wait  upon  them,  Bertie  avers — to 
sit  on  high  stools  and  listen  to  hyacinthe  dry-goods  men  expa« 
tiating  on  the  beaut/  of  lace  and  ribbon*  and  artificial  flowery 


««  THE  FEAST  IS  SET."  167 

will  be  to  him  the  supreme  pinnacle  of  earthly  blessedness  \  It 
is  as  usual  the  odious  Miss  Hendrick  who  topples  him  down  off 
the  high  horse  he  is  rampantly  riding. 

"  A  change  has  come  o'er  the  spirit  of  your  dream,  rather, 
hasn't  there?"  she  says.  "Up  to  this  morning  you  have 
obstinately  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  us.  Apropos 
of  early  rising,  the  theatre  people  were  to  go  to-day—didn't 
Mr.  Sunderland  say  so  last  evening,  Syd  ?  You  must  have 
seen  them  this  morning  in  Wychcliffe,  Mr.  Vaughan  ?  " 

Again  blue  eyes  and  black  eyes  meet — again  Mr.  Vaughan 
asks  himself  could  it,  would  it,  be  wrong  to  privately  assassin- 
ate this  girl  if  he  gets  the  chance. 

"  I  saw  them,  Miss  Hendrick  ;  I  even  shook  hands  with  two 
or  three  of  them.  Are  there  any  further  particulars  of  the 
theatre  people  you  would  like  to  hear  ?  " 

"  None  at  all,  thank  you,"  Cyrilla  laughs ;  "  I  am  quite  satis- 
fied. In  half  an  hour,  then,  Mr.  Vaughan,  we  will  place  our- 
selves under  your  fostering  care  for  the  morning." 

All  Sydney's  artless  efforts  to  make  these  two  friends,  fall  flat. 
It  is  one  of  the  thorns  in  her  bed  of  roses  that  Cyrilla  will  per- 
sist in  saying  "  Mr.  Vaughan  "  to  the  bitter  end. 

"  I  think  it  is  really  unkind  of  you,  Cy,"  she  says,  reproach- 
fully now.  "  Calling  Bertie  Mr.  Vaughan,  just  as  if  he  wasn't 
to  marry  me  next  week.  I  am  sure,  if  our  cases  were 
reversed,  I  would  have  been  calling  Mr.  Carew  Freddy  long 
before  this." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  you  would,"  answers  Cyrilla,  laughing  ;  "  no 
one  ever  does  call  Freddy  anything  but  Freddy,  so  far  as  I  can 
see.  There  is  no  ccmparing  the  cases.  There  is  a  dignity,  an 
unapproachableness  (that  is  a  good  word)  about  Mr.  Vaughan 
that  forbids  flippant  familiarities  with  his  Christian  name.  If  I 
were  wrecked  on  a  desert  island  with  your  future  spouse,  Syd, 
I  couldnH  call  him  Bertie — not  under  eighteen  months. 

Sydney  looks  at  her  friend,  half  puzzled,  half  indignant,  half 
inclined  to  laugh  herself.  Bertie  dignified  !  Bertie  unap- 
proachable !  But  Miss  Hendrick's  quizzical  face  baffles  her. 

"  Do  you  hear  from  Fred  often,  Cy  ?  "  she  inquires. 

"  Twice  a  week,  poor  boy  !  Ah  !  what  a  penance  it  must  be 
to  Fred  Care\v,  who  hates  the  sight  of  pen  and  ink  with  an  honest 
hatred  he  never  attempts  to  conceal.  Each  letter  contains  pre- 
thirteen  lines.  That  military  heart  of  his  may  be  full  tc 
Overflowing,  and  no  doubt  is,  but  to  sit  at  a  desk  and  put  down 
m  c.9ld  ink  Uie  gushing  warmth  of  hi*  »ffection-~no,  that  u  'be- 


168  "  THE  FEAST  IS  SET" 

yond  Freddy  ;  I  don't  expect  it.  I  take  my  thirteen  lines,  and 
am  thankful.  What  a  rage  Aunt  Dormer  would  be  in  if  she  only 
knew  !  " 

That  day's  devotion  on  Bertie's  part  was  but  \.\\e  facsimile  of 
the  next  and  the  next.  The  third  was  Friday — the  P>iday  pre- 
ceding the  wedding — and  on  that  day  Captain  Owenson  dis- 
patched his  son-in-law-elect  to  New  York  on  an  important  mis- 
sion— no  less,  indeed,  than  the  inspection  of  the  old  sailor's  wed- 
ding-suit and  his  own.  For  upon  mature  deliberation  it  had 
been  decided  that  the  tailors  of  Wychcliffe,  sufficiently  skilled 
artist  at  ordinary  times,  were  not  to  be  trusted  upon  the  present 
important  occasion.  The  sombre  regulation  costume  must  be 
got  in  the  metropolis,  and  Bertie  must  be  upon  the  spot  to  see 
that  no  mistake  was  made.  There  were  other  commissions  also 
to  fulfill  for  the  ladies — he  would  probably  be  detained  until 
Monday  night. 

"And  upon  my  return,  sir,"  said  Bertie,  "  with  your  permission 
I  will  take  up  my  quarters  at  the  Wychcliffe  Hotel  until  Thurs- 
day morning.  In  the  usual  course  of  things,  the  bridegroom 
doesn't  generally  exist  and  have  his  being  under  the  same  roof 
with  the  bride.  It  will  be  more  strictly  en  regie,  believe  me,  if 
I  hang  out  at  the  hotel." 

"Oh! — pooh  —  nonsense — fiddle-dee-dee!"  said  Captain 
Owenson. 

"  All  right,  sir — as  you  please.  I  merely  mentioned  the  fact. 
1  know  it's  the  thing  in  England,  but  of  course  you  know  best. 
It  doesn't  matter  to  me,"  upliftedly  responded  Mr.  Vaughan. 

The  mention  of  England  brought  down  the  Captain,  as  Bertie 
knew  it  would. 

"Stay!  Look  here!  Wait  a  minute!  It's  so  long  since 
I've  had  anything  to  do  with  weddings  that  I've  forgotten.  Will 
it  really  be  more  in  accordance  with  well-bred  British  customs 
if  you  go  to  the  hotel  ?  It  looks  like  torn-foolery  to  me." 

"  It's  the  thing,  depend  upon  it,"  answered  Bertie,  calmly. 
"  If  I  only  consulted  my  own  inclinations,  I  would  stay  here, 
of  course,  near  Sydney.  But  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  be- 
fore, as  bride  and  bridegroom  starting  for  church  out  of  the 
same  house.  If  it  be  an  American  custom,  however,  and  if  you 
wish  it,  I  bow,  of  course,"  says  Bertie,  with  a  graceful  inclina- 
tion, "to  your  superior  wisdom." 

"  That  will  do,"  growls  the  captain — he  hated  American  cus- 
toms. "  Let  it  be  as  you  say.  Stop  at  the  hotel  when  you 
come  back.  Will  it  be  a  solecism  of  English  wedding  good 


"THE  FEAST  IS  SET."  169 

manners,  may  I  ask  for  you  to  favor  us  with  an  occasional 
call  during  those  intervening  two  days  ?  "  concludes  the  captain, 
sarcastically. 

"  I  shall  spend  my  days  and  evenings  here,  sir,"  answered 
Bertie,  repressing  a  strong  inclination  to  laugh,  "  returning  to 
the  hotel  to  sleep." 

So  this  nice  point  of  bridal  etiquette  was  settled,  and  Mr. 
Vaughan  started  for  New  York.  A  haunting  fear  that  Dolly 
would  turn  up,  those  last  two  days,  and  seek  him  out  at  the 
Place,  had  underlain  the  hotel  project.  If  she  did  come — he 
groaned  mentally  as  he  thought  of  it — and  visited  him  there, 
less  harm  would  be  done.  In  some  way — in  what  way  he  did 
not  know,  but  in  some  way — he  would  quiet  her,  and  keep  her 
out  of  harm's  way  until  the  ring  was  on  Sydney's  finger.  Then 
let  her  do  her  worst.  And  yet,  poor  little  Dolly  !  how  fond  he 
had  been  of  her,  too  ! 

He  reached  the  great  city,  spent  three  days  and  a  great  deal 
of  money  very  agreeably.  A  strong,  almost  irresistible  desire 
to  hunt  up  Dolly  possessed  him.  He  was  never  happier  than 
when  with  Dolly, — she  suited  him,  as  novels  put  it,  "  to  the  finest 
fibre  of  his  being."  But  it  would  not  do  ;  if  she  once  set  eyes 
on  him  in  New  York,  an  inward  conviction  told  him  she  would 
never  let  him  go.  Who  was  to  tell  that  she  might  not  get  a 
gang  of  East-side  brigands  to  bear  him  off  captive  to  the  deep- 
est dungeon  in  the  Bowery,  and,  willy-nilly,  make  him  her  hus- 
band ?  Some  vague  thoughts  like  these  actually  went  through 
Bertie's  brain.  No  ;  it  would  not  do  ;  he  must  not  go  to  see 
Dolly  ;  he  must  never  see  Dolly  while  he  lived  again.  In  spite 
of  Sydney's  real  estate  and  bank  stock,  it  was  a  dismal  thought, 
and  he  sighed  profoundly.  After  all,  it  was  a  pity  Dolly  wasn't 
rich,  or  a  great  actress.  He  was  fond  of  her — there  was  no 
getting  over  that. 

Monday  morning  came.  The  week  "  big  with  fate "  had 
arrived.  He  took  the  cars,  his  business  satisfactorily  com- 
pleted, and  started  for  home.  It  was  only  a  three  hours'  ride 
to  U'ychcliffe.  As  he  took  his  seat  and  unfolded  the  morning's 
damp  paper,  he  was  thinking  that  the  crisis  in  his  life  had  come. 
How  would  he  feel  this  time  next  Monday  morning  ?  Would  he 
be  sitting  by  Sydney's  side  somewhere  on  their  bridal  journey, 
her  lawful  owner  and  possessor,  or  would  Dolly  turn  up  and 
make  a  grand  theatrical  tableau  in  the  church — and  would 
ruin,  and  poverty,  and  disgrace  be  his  portion  for  life  ? 

He  could  not  read.     Again  and  again  he  tried;  again  and 


170  "THE  FEAST  IS  SET." 

again  he  failed  He  gave  it  up  at  last,  and  sat  staring  out  at 
the  wintry  picture  flitting  by.  It  was  like  a  day  cut  in  steel — • 
clear,  windless,  sunless,  cold.  The  sky  was  pale  gray,  the 
earth  frozen  hard,  ringing  like  glass  at  every  sound.  The  trees 
stood  up,  tracing  their  black,  sharp  outlines  against  the  steely 
air.  A  snow-storm  was  pending—  would  it  storm  on  the  wed- 
ding-day ? 

"  Dolly  !  Dolly  !  "  She  haunted  him  like  an  importunate 
ghost.  Her  face  was  before  him,  her  voice  in  his  ears.  "  Re- 
member !  " — what  had  she  meant  by  that  ?  He  had  laughed 
then  ;  it  was  no  laughing  matter  now.  Oh  !  it  meant  that  he 
was  to  be  with  her  on  Wednesday  night.  He  had  said  he 
would,  if  the  captain  did  not  die.  Die  !  he  looked  of  late  as 
though  he  would  never  die,  as  if  he  had  renewed  his  lease  of 
Hfe. 

Remember  !  How  ominous  a  gleam  there  had  been  in  her 
black  eyes  as  she  said  it.  Black-eyed  women  are  always  edge 
tools  to  play  with.  Why  had  she  ever  come  to  Wychcliffe? 
Why  had  he  ever  gone  to  that  infernal  little  theatre  ?  What 
would  she  do  on  Wednesday  night  when  he  did  not  come  ? 
Would  she  even  wait  as  long  as  Wednesday  night  ?  It  was 
only  three  hours'  ride  to  Wychcliffe,  and  trains  were  running 
all  the  time.  She  was  not  a  girl  to  stick  at  a  trifle,  and  she 
had  told  him  she  would  not  give  him  up.  The  wedding  hour 
was  eleven.  If  she  took  the  cars  Thursday  morning  in  New 
York,  there  would  be  ample  time  to  get  to  church  in  season 
to 

He  broke  off  with  a  pang  of  absolute  physical  agony.  He 
could  see  it  all,  that  horrible,  sickening  scene.  Sydney  faint- 
ing, the  guests  standing  horror-stricken,  the  old  captain,  his 
friend,  his  benefactor,  livid  with  fear  and  rage,  Dolly,  a  black- 
eyed  Nemesis,  wild  and  dishevelled,  in  their  midst,  her  back 
hair  down,  displaying  her  proofs  before  them  all,  pointing  the 
finger  of  retribution  at  him,  and  reading  his  letters  aloud.  Those 
fatal  letters  !  Spoony  beyond  all  ordinary  depths  of  spoonyism, 
and  he — he  standing  pallid  with  guilt,  his  knees  knocking  to- 
gether, paralyzed,  stricken  dumb,  sheepish. 

He  set  his  teeth.  No !  if  it  came  to  that  there  should  be  a 
tragic  ending  that  would  take  the  edge  of  the  sheepishness  at 
least.  He  would  provide  himself  with  a  pistol,  load  it,  carry  it 
in  his  breast  pocket,  and  when  the  awful  moment  came  he 
would  thrust  in  his  hand,  hurl  it  forth,  cry  :  "  Woman — fiend  ! 
behold  your  work  !  "  and  pull  the  trigger.  There  would  be  a 


"THE  FEAST  IS  SET*  1 71 

flasli,  a  report,  the  wild  shrieks  of  many  women,  and  he  would 
fall  headlong  at  his  bride's  feet — dead  ! 

"  Wychcliffe  !"  shouted  the  conductor,  putting  in  his  head. 

From  his  tragical  reverie  Mr.  Vaughan  sprang  to  his  legs, 
seized  his  baggage,  and  got  out  of  the  car.  There  were  many 
he  knew  at  the  depot,  but  no  one  from  The  Place,  of  course. 

He  took  a  hack  and  drove  to  the  hotel,  made  some  change 
in  his  toilet,  jumped  into  his  hack  once  more,  and  was  driven 
to  Owenson  Place  in  time  for  luncheon  and  to  give  an  account 
of  his  stewardship. 

Nothing  had  happened — bright  loolcs  and  cordial  greetings 
met  him  everywhere.  The  captain  wrung  his  hand  as  though 
he  had  been  away  a  year  or  so.  Sydney  actually  blushed  and 
looked  shyly  glad  to  see  him.  Aunt  Char  kissed  his  mustache, 
and  Miss  Hendrick  gave  him  one  slim,  dusk  hand,  the  old 
quizzical,  satirical  look  in  her  ebon  eyes. 

"  How  I  do  hate  that  girl  ! "  he  said,  petulantly,  to  Sydney, 
ten  minutes  later,  when  they  were  alone. 

"  Bertie  ! "  Sydney  cried,  in  a  shocked  tone  ;  "hate  Cyrilla  ! 
You  don't  mean  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do — hate  her  as  I  do  the " 

"  Bertie  ! " 

"  Well,  I  won't,  then  ;  but,  I  detested  her  from  the  first  me- 
ment  I  set  eyes  on  her.  After  you're  married,  Mrs.  Vaughan, 
I  promise  you  she  shall  not  wear  herself  out  visiting  us.  Now, 
don't  put  on  that  horrified  face,  sis.  You've  known  well  enough 
I  didn't  like  her  all  along." 

"But  why?"  persisted  Miss  Owenson.  "I  think  she's 
lovely.  Why  don't  you  like  her?  She's  never  done  anything 
to  you." 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not,  and  wouldn't  either  if  she  got  a 
chance  ! "  says  Bertie,  sarcastically.  "  Why  don't  you  like  a 
toad  or  a  snake  when  you  meet  one  ?  A  little  green  snake  is 
pretty  to  look  at  and  never  did  any  one  any  harm.  Why  do 
we  take  antipathies  to  people  at  sight  ? 

"  '  I  do  not  like  you  Doctor  Fell ; 
The  reason  why  I  cannot  tell.' 

"  I  feel  Doctor  Fell  toward  her.  I  could  see  her  bow-strung 
and  cast  into  the  Bosphorus  in  a  sack  by  two  of  my  blackest 
Nubians,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life  !  " 

Then  there  is  siience — horrified  on  Sydney's  part,  ruminativ* 
on  Mr.  Vaughan' s. 


1 72  "  THE  FEAST  IS  SET" 

"  And  so  everything's  lovely,  Syd  ?  "  he  says,  after  a  moment 
"  Nothing's  happened  ?  '  The  feast  is  set,  the  guests  are  met, 
all  correct  and  duly  ?  " 

"What  could  happen?"  asks  Sydney,  gayly.  "Of  course 
everything  is  correct.  Except  the  weather,"  adds  the  bride- 
elect,  glancing  apprehensively  out  of  the  window  ;  "  that's  cold 
and  miserable  enough  even  for  the  last  week  of  November. 
By-the-by,  it's  a  dismal  inonth  to  be  married  in,  Bertie." 

"  Is  it  ?  But  there  will  be  so  much  sunshine  in  our  hearts 
that  we  will  never  see  the  weather.  You  didn't  think  I  was  so 
poetical,  sis.  did  you  ?  Honestly,  though,  if  we  are  married 
on  Thursday  morning,  I'll  do  my  best  to  behave  myself  and 
make  you  happy." 

It  is  about  the  nearest  approach  to  a  tender  speech  this  ar- 
dent bridegroom  has  ever  got,  and  Sydney  laughs  at  it,  but 
with  a  little  tremble  in  her  voice. 

"  '  If  we  are  married ! '  What  an  odd  thing  to  say,  Bertie  ! " 

"  Oh  !  well,  one  never  knows — one  may  die  any  day.  '  In 
*.he  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,'  and  all  that.  One  never  is 
certain  of  anything  in  this  most  uncertain  world." 

She  looks  at  him  in  wonder  as  he  makes  this  cheerful  and 
bridegroom-like  speech.  He  is  lying  back  in  an  easy-chair, 
his  legs  outstretched,  a  hand  thrust  in  each  trouser  pocket,  a 
dismal  look  on  his  face  that  suits  his  dismal  words.  He  is  think- 
ing of  Dolly. 

"  Would  you  care  much,  Syd,"  he  goes  on,  looking  out  of  the 
window  at  the  dreary  grayness  of  the  dull  day,  not  at  her  won- 
dering face,  "  if  you  lost  me  ?  You're  not  in  love  with  me,  I 
know — no  more  am  " — "  I  with  you  "  is  on  his  lips,  and  he 
barely  catches  it  in  time — "  no  more  do  I  expect  it  just  yet ; 
but  we've  been  jolly  good  friends  and  comrades  all  our  lives — 
quite  like  brother  and  sister  ;  and — would  you  be  sorry  if  any- 
thing happened,  Syd  ?  " 

She  comes  close  to  him,  laying  a  timid  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  looking  down  at  his  moody  face. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Bertie.  If  anything  hap- 
pened to  stop  our  marriage,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  If  s  only  a  suppositious  case,  of  course,  but  would  you  ?" 

"  You  know  I  would,"  she  answers.  "  I — I  am  not  in  love 
with  you,  as  you  say,  but  indeed,  Bertie,  I  do  mean  to  be  a 
loving  wife,  and  make  you  happy.  1  would  be  dreadfully  sorry 
if  anything  happened  to  break  off  our  marriage  now.  I  really 
believe  papa  would  die  of  the  disappointment." 


"  THE  FEAST  IS  SET."  173 

"  Always  papa  !  " 

He  sits  erect  hastily,  for  just  at  that  moment,  enter  Miss 
Hendrick,  and  all  the  softer  sentiments  take  unto  themselves 
wings  and  fly  at  sight  of  her  deriding  black  eyes. 

All  the  minor  details  of  the  important  event  are  mapped  out 
by  this  time.  Cyrilla,  Mamie  and  Susie  Sunderland  are  to 
support  the  bride  through  the  ceremonial — she  thinks  she  can 
survive  with  only  three  bridesmaids.  Harry  Sunderland  is  to 
be  best  man.  Grooms  and  groomsman  are  to  meet  bride  and 
bridesmaids  at  St.  Philip's,  at  eleven  A.  M.,  sharp.  The  nup- 
tial knot  tied,  they  are  to  return  to  the  paternal  mansion — then 
breakfast,  toasts,  speeches,  good  wishes,  etc.  A  very  large 
company  are  bidden.  Then  the  bridal  tour,  due  south,  and  un 
alloved  bliss  for  the  rest  of  their  natural  lives ! 

The  snow-storm  still  threatens,  but  has  not  begun  to  fall, 
when  at  ten  o'clock  Bertie  returns  to  his  hotel.  All  Tuesday 
it  darkens  and  lowers,  and  glooms,  and  the  wind  blows  from  a 
stormy  quarter,  but  still  the  impending  storm  holds  up.  It  will 
be  a  heavy  fall  when  it  comes,  and  the  world  will  wear  its  chil- 
liest nuptial  robe  to  do  honor  "to  Sydney's  bridal.  One  step 
for  his  own  protection  Bertie  has  taken.  On  Monday  night 
he  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Dolly,  informing  her  that  the  wedding 
had  been  postponed  a  week.  That  would  throw  her  off  the 
track  he  fondly  hoped.  If  he  could  have  seen  the  bitter  unbe- 
lieving smile  with  which  Miss  De  Cotircy  perused  it,  his  confi- 
dence in  his  own  diplomacy  might  have  been  shaken. 

On  Wednesday  morning  the  long  threatening  storm  began. 
The  feathery  snow  came  down  in  great,  white,  whirling  flakes — 
down,  down,  softly,  steadily,  ceaselessly.  No  wind  blew,  the 
bitter  cold  had  changed  to  softness,  and  in  two  hours  all  the 
world  was  wrapped  in  a  soft,  soundless,  ghostly  carpet  of 
white. 

"  Oh  !  "  sighs  Sydney,  as  she  flutters  from  room  to  room  and 
looks  wistfully  out,  "how  sorry  1  am.  I  did  so  want  to-morrow 
toe." 

'•  Superstitious  child  !  What's  the  odds  ?  "  says  Mr.  Vaughan  ; 
"though  the  snow  were  piled  mountains  high,  though  the 
'awful  avalanche'  that  destroyed  that  rash  young  man,  Excelsior, 
threatened,  still  would  your  devoted  Bertie  be  there." 

"  Well,  1  wish  the  sun  would  shine,"  persists  the  bride. 
"  You  may  say  what  you  please,  but  a  stormy  wedding-day  ig 
unlucky  !  " 

"My  child,  I  am  saying  nothing.     And   I  am  perfectly  con- 


174  "THE  FEAST  IS  SET* 

fident  the  sun  will  shine.  It  will  snow  itself  out  before  evening 
at  th'.s  rate.  They  can't  have  such  a  stock  on  hand  up  there." 
says  Bertie,  consolingly. 

Bertie  is  right.  All  day  long  it  falls,  soundlessly  and  thickly, 
then  as  evening  approaches  it  lightens  and  ceases.  The  aii 
turns  crisp  and  cold,  the  stars  come  out,  the  wind  veers  round 
into  a  propitious  quarter,  and  the  sun  will  shine  upon  Sydney's 
wedding. 

The  Misses  Sunderland  are  here,  Bertie,  Cyrilla,  Sydney — 
this  last  evening.  The"  have  music,  and  waltzes  in  a  small 
way  over  the  carpet.  Down  in  the  dining-room  the  marriage 
feast  is  set  out,  silver  and  glass  making  a  brave  show  under  the 
lamps.  Cold  white  cakes  glisten,  cut  flowers  in  frosty  epergnes 
are  everywhere  !  Up  in  one  of  the  spare  rooms  the  bridal 
dress  and  vail,  wreath,  gloves,  and  slippers,  lie  pale  and  wraith- 
like  in  the  starry  dusk. 

At  ten  o'clock  Mr.  Vaughan  arises,  makes  his  adieus,  dons 
his  overcoat,  cap  and  gloves,  and  departs.  Sydney  escorts  him 
to  the  door.  How  white  and  still  all  the  snowy  world  below, 
how  golden  and  blue  all  the  shining  world  above  !  How  tran- 
quil, how  beautiful  heaven  and  earth  ! 

"  I  am  so  glad  it  will  be  fine,"  she  says,  with  a  little  flutter- 
ing breath. 

He  bends  above  her  a  smile,  almost  fond  on  his  face. 

"  Good-by,  sis,"  he  says.  "  After  to-morrow  there  will  be  no 
more  good-bys." 

Then  he  is  gone.  She  watches  him  in  the  starlight  along  the 
snowy  path.  Once  he  turns  and  waves  his  hand  to  her,  that 
smile  still  lingering  on  his  lips.  So  in  her  dreams,  for  many  an 
after  year,  Bertie  Vaughan  comes  back  to  her. 

He  has  disappeared,  and  Sydney,  silent  and  thoughtful,  goes 
back.  Bertie  tramps  on  his  road,  with  only  one  thought  in  his 
mind.  Dolly  has  not  come — will  she  come  to-morrow  ?  He 
takes  the  short-cut  to  the  town — the  path  that  Sydney  affects, 
which  "gives"  along  the  high  cliffs  above  the  sea.  All  black 
and  mysterious  that  great  sea  lies  down  yonder  under  the  stars 
its  soft-ceaseless  whispering  was  sounding  on  the  sands.  He 
has  reached  Wychcliffe,  the  highest  point,  without  meeting  a 
creature,  and  it  is  just  here  from  behind  the  rock  that  a  dark 
figure  starts  up  in  his  path  and  a  stern  voice  cries . 

"  Stay ! " 


THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET.*  175 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  THE    GUESTS    ARE    MET." 

A  is  finishing  "  Come  Haste  to  the  Wedding," 
in  ten  pages  of  wild  variations,  driving  the  old- 
fashioned  tune  distracted  :  and  she  rises  from  the 
piano  as  Sydney  enters.  At  sight  of  the  bride's 
thoughtful  little  look,  she  laughs. 

"  My  solemn  Sydney  !  what  is  it  he  has  been  saying  to  you 
so  heart-breaking  that  you  should  wear  that  forlorn  look  ?  " 

"Do  I  look  forlorn?"  returns  Miss  Owenson.  "I  don't 
feel  so,  I  can  tell  you.  Papa,  do  you  know  we  are  going  to 
have  a  fine  day  to-morrow,  after  all,  and  I  am  so  glad." 

"  And  I  am  glad  of  anything  that  makes  my  little  girl  glad," 
says  papa  with  loving  eyes.  "  Now,  young  ladies  all,  which  do 
you  propose,  to  make  a  night  of  it  here,  and  go  to  church  to- 
morrow as  yellow  as  lemons,  or  try  the  early-to-bed  and  early- 
to-rise  principle,  Bertie  was  advocating  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  To  bed  !  to  bed  !  "  exclaims  Miss  Hendrick.  "  I  for  one 
don't  expect  to  sleep  a  wink  ;  it  is  the  first  time  I  ever  was 
bridesmaid  in  my  life.  Shall  you,  Syd  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  at  least,"  laughs  Sydney.  "/  don't  want  to 
look  as  yellow  as  a  lemon,  to-morrow.  Mamie,  dear,  it  is  your 
turn  to  look  solemn — what  is  it  about  ?  " 

For  the  elder  Miss  Sunderland  is  staring  in  rather  a  dreary 
way  at  the  fire,  and  saying  nothing. 

"  I  know  ! "  cries  that  malicious  elf,  her  younger  sister,  tri- 
i  mphantly. 

••  Miss  Hendrick's  last  remark  has  upset  her.  This  is  the 
third  time  she  has  been  a  bridesmaid  ;  and  three  times  a  brides- 
maid never  a  bride,  you  know.  She  is  thinking  how  the  cele- 
brated and  fascinating  Miss  Dolly  De  Courcy  had  stolen  from 
her  the  tickle  affections  of  Ben " 

"  Susie  ! "  cries  Miss  Mamie  in  an  awful  voice,  and  Susie, 
the  irrepressible,  shouts  with  laughter,  and  stops.  Miss  Hen- 
drick laughs  a  quiet  laugh  to  herself,  too.  Truly  Wychcliffe  is 
well  rid,  she  thinks,  of  that  small  destroying  angel  Dolly  De 
Courcy. 

'•  ( lood-night,  Syd — dear  old  Syd — our  Syd,  no  more  !  "  ex- 
claims Susie  Sunderland,  flinging  her  arms  around  the  neck  of 


1 76  "  THE   GUESTS  ARE  MET." 

the  bride — in  that  scrt  of  hug  known  to  bears  and  school-p"'rli 
"  This  time  to-morrow — oh  !  dismal  to  think  of — it  will  be  Mrs. 
Bertie  Vaughan." 

"  Good-night,  Syd — good-night,  Sydney,  repeat  Cyrilla  and 
Mamie,  each  with  a  less  vehement  embrace. 

"  Good-night,  Sydney,  love,"  says  mamma,  coming  last  of  all. 
"Try  and  sleep  well — it's  very  trying  to  the  eyesight  not  to 
sleep  well.  I  recollect  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  the  night  before  / 
was  married — you  remember,  Reginald  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  remember  ?  "  growls  Reginald.  "  I  am  sure 
I  wasn't  there  ?"  Whereat  the  girls  all  laugh. 

"  Well,  I  didn't,"  says  Aunt  Char,  "  and  my  eyes  were  as 
red  as  a  ferret's  next  day." 

"  And  lest  yours  should  be  as  red  as  a  ferret's  to-morrow, 
suppose  you  be  off  to  bed  at  once.  Good  night,  young 
ladies,"  says  the  old  sailor  with  his  grandest  bow,  "  I  wish 
you  all  pleasant  dreams,  and  a  speedy  coming  of  your  bridal 
eve." 

They  are  all  gone,  and  Sydney  stands  alone  by  her  father's 
side.  He  puts  his  arm  about  her  and  looks  anxiously  down  in 
her  face. 

"  You  are  happy,  Sydney  ?  "  he  asks — "  really  and  truly 
happy  ?  " 

She  lifts  her  smiling  face  and  fair,  serene  eyes. 

"  Really  and  truly,  papa — quite,  quite  happy." 

"  God  bless  my  little  daughter." 

He  holds  her  to  him  a  moment,  and  lets  her  go.  And  Syd 
ney  runs  to  her  room,  that  smile  still  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 

The  red  glow  of  firelight  fills  the  room.  She  turns  low  her 
light  and  goes  to  the  window,  to  make  sure  of  the  weather. 
Yes,  there  are  the  stars,  a  countless  host,  studding  that  illimit- 
able, blue  dome.  Something  in  their  glittering,  tremulous  love- 
liness holds  her  there,  and  she  stands  and  gazes.  And  then 
Bertie's  words  come  strangely  back  to  her  as  if  some  soundless 
voice  had  spoken  :  "  One  never  knows — we  may  die  any  day. 
In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death." 

She  has  heard  many  times  the  grand,  solemn  words,  spoken 
nine  hundred  years  ago,  by  the  saintly  lips  of  the  Monk  of  St. 
Gall's — on  the  lips  of  all  mankind  since;  but  they  have  never 
held  the  meaning  to  her  they  hold  now.  Yes,  life  with  all  its 
hopes  and  plans,  its  births  and  bridals,  is  like  a  half-told  tale  at 
best.  Suddenly,  when  the  story  is  at  its  brightest  and  fullest, 
the  frail  thread  snaps,  and  Time  is  at  an  end  and  Eternit)  begins 


"THE    GUESTS  ARE  MET."  1 77 

"  What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day  ! 
A  little  sun  a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  across  the  plain, 

And  all  things  pass  away." 

All  things  but  the  good  works  humbly  done,  the  duties  cheerfully 
fulfilled,  the  crosses  patiently  borne — everything  else  life  ha? 
held,  lost — these  alone  to  plead  for  us  in  that  awful  dies  irce. 

She  draws  the  curtain  and  turns  away,  her  thoughts  swee* 
and  solemn,  but  not  sad.  Half  an  hour  later,  her  fair  hair  fall 
ing  loose  over  her  pillow,  a  wondrously  fair  sight,  in  the  rose 
shine  of  the  fire  she  is  sleeping  like  a  tired  child. 

The  sun  is  shining,  filling  her  room  with  its  early  morning 
glory,  when  she  awakes,  and  some  one  is  standing  by  her  bed- 
side smiling  down  upon  her.  It  is  Cyrilla. 

"Laziest  of  brides,"  is  Miss  Hendrick's  greeting,  "get  up. 
Look  at  that  clock  and  blush  for  yourself." 

Sydney  looks — it  is  nearly  eight. 

'•  Well,"  she  says,  with  a  stifled  gape,  "  that  is  a  very  good 
hour,  isn't  it?" 

Then  she  is  silent,  and  as  it  flashes  back  upon  her  that  thif 
is  her  wedding-day,  her  heart  for  a  moment  seems  to  stand  still. 
She  sits  up  in  bed,  throws  her  arms  around  her  friend's  neck, 
draws  down  her  face  and  kisses  it. 

"  Dear  old  Cy  !  "  she  says,  "  what  good  friends  we  have 
always  been.  I  hope — oh  !  I  hope  to-day  may  never  make  any 
difference  between  us." 

"It  will  make  a  great  deal  of  difference,"  responds  matter-of- 
fact  Miss  Hendrick.  "Mr.  Vaughan  detests  me  with  a  cordial- 
ity worthy  a  better  cause.  Well,  perhaps  he  has  had  some  rea- 
son," and  Cyrilla  laughs. 

"  Reason  ?  "    Sydney  looks  puzzled.     "  What  reason  ?  " 

"Never  mind — you  dear  little  innocent,  it  isn't  well  for  you 
to  know  too  much.  But,  be  assured  of  this — however  friendly 
Miss  Owenson  may  have  been  to  her  vagabond  friend,  Mrs. 
Vaughan  will  keep  her  civilly  at  arms'  length." 

"  Cy  !  as  if  I  could  ever  change  to  you." 

"Ah!  wait,"  hints  Cyrilla  darkly;  "wives  and  maidens  are 
two  different  orders  of  beings.  You  will  see  with  Bertie  Vaughan's 
eyes,  and  think  with  his  thoughts,  before  you  are  his  wife  three 
months.  It  is  one  of  the  fixed  laws  of  nature,  as  immutable  as 
the  stars ! " 

"  If  1  were  three  years — three  centuries  his  wife,"  cried  Miss 


1 78  "THE    GUESTS  ARE  MET," 

Owenson,  with  heightened  color,  "I  would  still  be  your  friend, 
as  strongly  and  as  firmly  as  I  am  to-day." 

"  Well,"  Miss  Hendrick  responds,  heaving  a  profound  sigh, 
"I  hope  so,  I'm  sure.  I  told  you  at  school  I  had  a  firm  con- 
viction I  would  one  day  make  strong  claims  upon  that  friend 
ship,  and  I  have  it  yet.  If  I  am  ever  in  trouble,  friendless  and 
cast  out,  I  shall  remind  you  of  this  promise.  Now  get  up,  do. 
and  dress  yourself,  and  come  and  have  some  coffee  and  a  roll  to 
nerve  you  for  the  trying  ordeal.  1  should  not  be  surprised  if 
Mr.  Vaughan  were  bracing  his  trembling  nerves  with  a  petite 
•verre  of  the  strongest  fire-water  in  Wychcliffe  at  this  moment." 

Sydney  has  her  bath,  knots  up  her  hair,  throws  on  a  dressing- 
gown,  thrusts  her  feet  into  slippers,  and  runs  down-stairs.  It  is 
nine  o'clock  now.  In  two  hours  precisely  she  will  be  standing 
at  the  altar. 

From  this  moment  all  is  fuss  and  haste,  bustle  and  confusion, 
A  hasty  cup  of  strong  coffee  is  swallowed  all  around  ;  eating  is 
but  a  pretext  with  these  excited  maidens,  then  they  scurry  off 
to  their  rooms.  In  his,  Captain  Owenson  is  making  the  most 
elaborate  toilet  man  ever  made  ;  he  began  at  eight  and  will 
probably  not  get  through  until  eleven.  For  the  first  time  in 
two  years  he  is  going  to  church.  Sydney  finds  the  hair-dresser 
awaiting  her,  and  places  herself  under  his  hands.  It  is  a 
lengthy  operation.  When  it  is  over  the  maid  who  is  to  robe 
her  for  the  sacrifice,  approaches  and  leads  her  off.  One  by  one 
they  are  on,  dress,  slippers,  vail,  wreath,  necklace,  gloves.  As 
in  a  dream  she  sits  or  stands,  wondering  "if  I  be  I."  She  can 
fancy  the  pains  Bertie  is  taking  over  his  wedding  toilet,  so  fas- 
tidious and  difficult  as  he  is  at  all  times,  and  she  smiles  to  her- 
self. Then  she  glances  at  the  clock — twenty  minutes  of 
eleven. 

"  Look  at  yourself,  miss,"  says  the  girl  with  a  pleased  simper. 
"  I  don't  believe  you  have  looked  yet." 

She  scarcely  has,  but  she  does  now.  She  almost  starts  ;  she 
utters  a  faint,  delighted  exclamation.  Can  this  be  Sydney  Ow- 
enson ?  this  radiant  vision  in  silvery  white,  with  all  that  gol(j 
hair  coiffed  so  elaborately  in  this  trailing  splendor  of  shimmer- 
ing silk,  and  pearls,  and  lace,  and  orange  blossoms  ?  Then  tke 
door  opens  and  the  three  bridesmaids  come  in. 

"  ph  1  " 

It  is  a  long-drawn,  breathless  aspiration  from  all  three  at  once. 
They  stand  and  survey  the  bride  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Oh,  doti  t  you  look  scrumptious  ! "  cries  Susie  Sunderland, 


"THE    GUESTS  ARE  MET."  179 

dancing  a  little  ecstatic  jig  around  the  bride  ;  "  shouldn't  1  love 
to  be  a  bride  and  look  like  that  ?  " 

They  are  all  three  in  palest  pink  !  rose  is  Cyrilla's  color,  and 
fortunately  suits  the  Sunderland  sisters.  In  palest  pink,  with 
golden  lockets,  the  bridegroom's  gift,  on  their  necks  and  blush 
roses  in  their  hair. 

"  You  really  look  lovely,  Syd,"  says  Minnie  Sunderland,  with 
a  small,  envious  sigh.  "  I  always  knew  being  married  was  be- 
coming to  almost  everybody,  but  it  becomes  you  better  than, 
any  one  I  ever  saw.  Your  dress  is  exquisite." 

"  And  don't  she  wish  Ben  Ward  would  ask  her  to  put  on  such 
a  one  and  come  to  church  with  him  !  "  says  Susie,  in  a  stage 
"  aside." 

The  door  opens  again  ;  this  time  it  is  mamma,  brave  in  pearl 
satin,  a  diamond  breast-pin  and  point-lace  cap. 

"  Will  I  do,  mamma  ?  "  the  bride  asks,  holding  up  her  face  to 
be  kissed. 

"  Yes,  you  look  very  well,"  says  mamma,  critically.  "  White 
silk  is  a  trying  thing  to  most  complexions,  but  then  fair  people 
with  a  color  can  wear  almost  anything.  I  could  myself  when 
I  was  a  girl.  Everybody  said  I  looked  remarkably  well  the 
night  I  was  married.  I^refer  a  gaslight  marriage  myself — it's 
more  imposing,  but  your  papa  would  have  the  morning  and  the 
church.  It's  more  English,  I  suppose." 

Again  a  tap^at  the  door — this  time  papa,  looking  stately  and 
grand,  an  "  orricer  and  a  gentleman  "  every  inch. 

"  Ready,  young  ladies  ? — ready,  Sydney  ?  "  he  asks,  his  watch 
in  his  hand,  "  the  carriage  is  at  the  door,  and  it  is  only  five  min- 
utes to  eleven.  We  shall  be  precisely  ten  minutes  late." 

"  Oh,  where  are  the  wraps  !  "  cry  all,  and  a  universal  rush  is 
made.  Dazzling  sunshine  streams  over  everything,  but  it  is  the 
last  week  of  November,  and  the  air  is  iced  accordingly.  Wraps 
are  found  and  thrown  on,  and  all  troop  down-stairs  with  a  joy- 
ous tumult  of  laughter  and  talk,  and  pile  into  the  two  carriages 
waiting  there.  Captain  Owenson,  Sydney  and  Cyrilla  Hendrick 
in  the  first,  mamma  and  the  Misses  Sunderland  in  the  other. 

"  What  a  perfect  day  ! "  Sydney  exultantly  cries  ;  "  sunshine 
everywhere  and  the  snow  sparkling  as  if  it  had  been  painted  and 
varnished.  It  is  a  good  omen — this  heavenly  day." 

"  I  wish  it  were  not  quite  so  trying  to  the  eyes,  though,"  said 
her  father  ;  "mine  have  been  blinking  in  its  dazzle  ard  raining 
tears— the  only  tears  that  are  to  be  shed  at  your  wedding, 
Sydney." 


180  "  THE    GUESTS  ARE  MET." 

Sydney  smiles  and  nestles  her  hand  in  his.  There  is  an  inter 
val  of  silence — then  they  are  in  Wychcliffe.  And  now  the  little 
bride's  heart  begins  to  beat  fast.  There  is  the  church — a  flock 
of  the  town  street  Arabs  around  the  gateth — e  hour  has  come. 

They  stop.  Can  Bertie  and  Harry  have  walked  ?  Theirs 
are  the  only  carriages  waiting.  The  girls  fling  off  their  loose 
wraps,  the  door  is  opened  and  the  captain  is  handed  out.  A 
red  carpet  is  laid  to  the  church  door — upon  it  the  bride  steps 
and  takes  her  father's  arm.  The  Misses  Sunderland  and  Miss 
Hendrick  follow  ;  mamma  sails  along  in  their  wake,  and  the 
bridal  cortege  sweep  into  the  church. 

There  is  a  mist  before  Sydney's  eyes,  a  dull  roaring  in  het 
ears ;  her  heart  beats  as  if  it  would  suffocate  her.  She  is  dimly 
conscious  that  the  church  is  very  full  of  people,  and  that  they 
are  all  staring  at  her.  Then — she  never  afterward  knows  how 
it  is — but  a  douche  of  ice-water  seems  to  go  over  her,  all  palpi- 
tation passes  away,  all  tremor,  all  shyness — she  feels  suddenly 
cold  and  still,  and  the  bridegroom  is  not  here ! 

They,  are  standing  alone  at  the  altar  rails,  her  father,  her 
bridesmaids,  herself,  and — no  one  else.  Bertie  and  Harry 
Sunderland  were  to  be  here  before  them,  but  neither  Bertie  noi 
Harry  has  come. 

Her  father — it  is  her  first  thought — her  proud,  sensitive,  in- 
valid old  father.  He  had  turned  livid  in  the  first  shock  of  real- 
izing the  affront  put  upon  him — he  has  turned  purple  now,  a  fine 
imperial  purple.  Then,  as  the  vestry  door  opens  and  the  par- 
son in  his  surplice  appears,  changes  to  ashen  pale  again.  The 
Reverend  Mr.  Sylvester  beckons  him  aside  and  says  in  a  whis- 
per: 

"This  is  very  awkward,  captain — it  is  a  quarter  past  eleven. 
Something  has  detained  the  bridegroom." 

Awkward  !  A  mild  way  of  putting  it,  certainly.  There  stands 
the  bride — there  stand  the  bridesmaids  in  a  blank  group,  there 
sit  all  the  gaping  people,  dead  silent,  breathless,  a  dawning 
smile  on  two  or  three  faces. 

Here  he  is — here  is  the  parson  ;  but  was  ever  such  a  thing 
heard  of  before  in  all  the  annals  of  bridals?— the  bridegroom  is 
late! 

To  her  dying  day,  it  seems  to  Sydney  as  she  stands  there,  she 
will  never  recall  this  moment  without  turning  sick  and  scarlet 
with  pain  and  shame.  She  is  as  white  as  the  dress  she  wears, 
she  stands  looking  straight  before  her  and  seeing  nothing.  Sc 
they  remain  a  petrified  group,  while  one,  two,  three,  four,  five 


"THE    GUESTS  ARE  MET?  181 

minutes  tick  off.  No  one  seems  to  know  what  to  do,  they  just 
stand  and  look  blankly  before  them.  Then  the  captain  pulls 
out  his  watch,  his  hand  shaking  as  though  palsy-stricken;  it  is 
twenty  minutes  past  eleven.  As  he  puts  it  back  there  is  a 
sudden  sound  and  bustle  at  the  door.  All  start,  all  eyes  turn, 
all  hearts  beat  quick.  A  man  enters,  one  man,  one  only — not 
the  bridegroom.  It  is  Harry  Sunderland. 

He  is  pale,  his  eyes  look  excited,  he  strides  up  to  where  they 
stand,  heedless  of  the  staring  congregation,  and  addresses  him- 
self to  the  father  of  the  bride. 

"Hasn't  Vaughan  come?"  he  asks,  in  a  hoarse,  breathless 
sort  of  voice. 

"  He  is  not  here,"  the  parson  answers. 

The  power  of  speech  it  seems  has  left  Captain  Owen  son. 

"Then  in  Heaven's  name,  where  can  he  be?"  the  young 
man  cries.  "  He  is  not  at  the  hotel — he  never  was  there  all 
night.  No  one  knows  anything  of  him.  He  left  yesterday 
afternoon  and  has  never  been  seen  since.  " 

In  the  same  hoarse,  breathless  voice,  he  says  all  this,  staring 
blankly  in  the  clergyman's  face. 

"  I  waited  and  waited,  hoping  he  would  come,"  he  goes 
on. 

"  I  sent  messengers  in  search  of  him.  No  one  has  seen  him, 
no  one " 

"  Papa ! "  Sydney  shrieks.  She  springs  forward,  not  a  second 
too  soon,  and  reels  as  her  father  falls  headlong  into  her  extended 
arms.  Harry  Sunderland  catches  him  before  both  fall. 

Then  a  scene  of  direst  confusion  begins,  the  cries  of  women, 
the  rushing  of  many  feet,  the  sounds  of  wild  weeping,  the  excited 
clamor  of  many  tongues.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  the  rector 
speaks : 

"  Carry  him  into  the  vestry,"  he  says,  and  young  Sunderland 
obeys.  Like  a  dead  man  the  old  sailor  lies  in  his  arms.  Is  he 
dead  ?  His  doom  has  been  long  ago  pronounced — a  sudden 
shock  may  kill  him  at  any  moment.  Surely  he  has  had  shock 
enough  now. 

"  Fly  for  a  doctor !"  says  Mr.  Sylvester. 

Sunderland  places  his  burden  upon  a  bench  and  goes.  Syd- 
ney, sinking  on  her  knees  by  his  side,  receives  her  father's  head 
in  her  arms.  She  does  not  speak,  she  makes  no  outcry,  she 
is  the  color  of  death,  and  her  eyes  are  wild  and  black  with  ter- 
ror, but  she  is  perfectly  still.  Her  mother  in  the  grasp  of  Cyrilla 
\  Icndrick  ii  in  violent  hysterics  ;  the  Sunderland  girls  stand  near, 


182  «  THE  GUESTS  ARE  MET." 

sobbing  uncontrollably.    Sydney  alone  looks  down  in  her  father's 
corpse-like  face  and  is  still. 

It  may  be  a  moment,  it  may  be  an  hour,  she  does  not  know 
when  the  doctor  comes.  She  does  not  quit  her  post  as  he 
makes  his  examination  ;  it  seems  to  her  she  hardly  lives  or  feels 
as  he  searches  pulse  and  heart,  and  pronounces  it  not  death,  but 
a  death-like  faint.  Then  remedies  of  all  kinds  are  tried.  Syd- 
ney is  told  to  arise,  and  mechanically  obeys.  She  stands  beside 
her  father,  heedless  of  everything  else  that  goes  on,  forgetful  of 
everything  else  that  has  happened,  and  watches  the  slow  return 
to  life.  Slow,  but  he  does  return  ;  there  is  a  struggle,  a  quiver 
of  all  the  limbs,  a  gasping  breath  or  two,  and  he  opens  his  eyes. 
He  is  bewildered  at  first — he  looks  wildly  around. 

"Sydney!" 

"Papa,  darling,  here!"  She  falls  on  her  knees  beside  him 
again,  again  takes  his  head  in  her  arms,  and  kisses  him  softly. 

"Something  has  happened?  "  he  asks  in  the  same  vacant  way. 

"What  was  it?  Oh,  I  know!"  A  spasm  of  agony  distorts 
his  face.  "Bertie." 

"  Harry  is  going  to  try  and  find  him.  Don't  think  of  Bertie 
now,  papa.  Can  you  sit  up  ?  We  are  going  to  take  you  home." 

"Yes,  home — home!"  he  makes  answer,  brokenly.  "There 
will  be  no  marrying  or  giving  in.  marriage  to-day.  Oh,  my 
little  daughter." 

They  raise  him  up,  Harry  Sunderland  on  one  side,  the  doctor 
on  the  other,  and  bear  him  between  them  to  the  carriage.  He 
came  here  this  morning  a  fine,  upright,  grand  old  gentleman,  he 
goes,  marked  for  death,  unable  to  stand  alone.  The  doctor 
follows  him  in,  and  sits  beside  him  ;  then  Sydney,  Henry  Sun- 
derland helps  to  hers,  Mrs.  Owenson  still  sobbing  wildly,  and 
finally  Miss  Hendrick. 

"You  had  better  get  into  my  sleigh,  girls,"  he  has  said  to  his 
sisters  ;  "it  is  at  the  gate.  They  want  no  strangers  at  Owen- 
son  Place  to  day.  You  can  drive  yourself  and  Sue,  Mamie." 

They  assent  and  go.  The  young  fellow  returns  to  the  first 
carriage  and  looks  with  compassionate  eyes  at  Sydney. 

"I  am  going  in  search  of  Bertie,"  he  says.  "I  will  find  him 
if  he  is  alive." 

She  bends  her  head  and  the  carriage  starts.  They  go  slowly 
• — it  takes  all  the  doctor's  strength  to  uphold  the  stricken  man 
The  other  carriage  is  at  the  house  before  them,  and  Mrs.  Owen- 
son  and  Cyrilla  stand  at  the  door. 

"Oh,  Reginald,"  Mrs.  Owenson  cries,  with  a  wild  flood  of  tears, 


"DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX."  183 

He  neither  seems  to  see  nor  hear  her.  Perkins  and  the  doc- 
tor carry  him  up-stairs  to  his  bedroom,  take  off  all  those  brave 
wedding-garments,  which  will  serve  for  his  shroud,  and  lay  him 
on  the  bed  from  which  he  will  never  rise. 

In  her  chamber  the  unwedded  bride  is  removing  with  rapid 
hands  vail,  wreath,  pearls,  robe.  There  are  no  tears  in  hei 
eyes;  she  has  shed  none,  she  keeps  that  pale  cold  calm  through 
all.  The  clock  strikes  one  as  she  throws  on  her  dressing-gown 
and  hurries  to  her  father's  bedside.  And  where  in  the  world  of 
the  living  or  the  world  of  the  dead  is  Bertie  Vaughan  ? 


CHAPTER  XX. 
"DEATH  is  KING — AND  VIVAT  REX." 

|ER  father  is  calling  for  her  as  she  goes  in.  She  comes 
forward  and  twines  her  arms  around  him  as  he  lies. 
Infinite  pity,  infinite  love  look  at  her  out  of  those 
haggard  eyes. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  says,  "  my  little  one,  it  is  hard  on  you." 

He  cannot  talk  much.  He  has  had  spasms  of  the  heart 
since  they  brought  him  home,  and  he  is  greatly  exhausted.  He 
lies  with  his  daughter's  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  falls,  almost  as 
he  speaks,  into  a  sort  of  stupor  in  which  he  remains  for  hours. 
The  doctor,  Mrs.  Owenson,  Cyrilla,  flit  in  and  out,  and  offer  to 
relieve  Sydney,  but  she  shakes  her  head,  and  her  pale  tired  face 
never  loses  its  patient,  suffering  look.  Her  mother  is  weeping 
ceaselessly — Sydney  sheds  no  tears.  "How  dreadful  of  you, 
Sydney,"  Mrs.  Owenson  says  with  a  suppressed  outbreak  of  sob- 
bing, "  to  sit  there  like  that,  and  your  poor  papa  as  bad  as  he 
can  be — not  to  speak  of  Bertie.  I  am  sure  if  I  were  in  your 
place  I  would  die.  I  never  thought  you  could  be  heartless  be- 
fore." 

Heartless!  is  she?  She  puts  her  hand  to  her  head  with  a 
dreary  gesture.  A  dull,  dumb  sense  of  misery  oppresses  her, 
but  she  cannot  cry — her  eyes  are  dry  and  hot.  Usually  tears 
come  as  readily  to  her  as  to  most  girls,  even  for  trifles,  although 
slif  has  never  wept  much  in  her  short  happy  life  ;  but  if  that  life 
depended  on  it  she  could  not  shed  a  tear  now. 

"  Please,  mamma,  not  so  loud.     You  will  wake  papa,"  she 


184  "DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX." 

says,  pleadingly,  and  mamma  with  another  burst  of  stifled  hys- 
terics goes  out  and  confides  to  Miss  Hendrick  ho\v  dry-eyed  and 
unfeeling  Sydney  sits. 

Hours  pass.  The  yellow  afternoon  sun  is  slanting  farther 
and  farther  westward  ;  in  the  sick-room  pale  twilight  is  falling 
already,  when  there  is  a  loud  ring  at  the  door-bell.  Sydney's 
heart  jumps  wildly.  Her  father's  dulled  ears  hear  it,  her  father's 
dulled  eyes  open. 

"  Who  is  this  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  I  don't  know.     Are  you  better  papa,  dear  ?  " 

"  Have  you  been  here  ever  since  ?  "  he  inquires. 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  you  know  I  would  rather  be  beside  you  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  world." 

"  My  Sydney  ! "  He  presses  her  hand  gently,  and  tears  force 
their  way  into  his  eyes  ;  "  there  is — no — news  ?  " 

"None,  papa — yet." 

"  They  are  searching  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa.  Mamma  says  Harry  and  the  constable  are 
searching  everywhere." 

"  How  long  have  I  slept?" 

"  Nearly  three  hours,  papa." 

"  And  you  have  been  here  all  that  time.  Your  mother  must 
relieve  you.  Ha  !  who  is  that  ?  " 

There  is  a  tap  at  the  door — it  opens,  and  Mrs.  Owenson 
comes  hastily  in. 

"  Sydney  !  "  she  says,  in  an  excited  whisper,  "  there  is  a  man 
here,  and  he  says  he  has  news.  He  wants  to  see  your  father — 
what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Send  him  in  !  "  exclaims  her  husband's  voice,  and  Aunt  Char 
jumps  and  shrieks;  "  send  him  in,  Char.  Do  you  hear  ?  At 
once." 

Mrs.  Owenson  vanishes.  Sydney  feels  the  hand  her  father 
holds  convulsively  grasped,  hears  his  quick  panting  breath,  sees 
the  excited  flash  of  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  papa,  be  careful !  "  she  pleads  ;  "  don't  excite  yourself. 
You  don't  know  the  harm  it  may  do." 

He  knows  well  enough,  but  he  never  thinks  of  himself  in  this 
moment.  The  man  is  ushered  in  by  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
and  stands,  hat  in  hand,  bowing  awkwardly  and  looking  embar- 
rassed— a  decent,  intelligent  working  man. 

"  Well,"  the  captain  gasps,  "  quick  !  what  is  your  news  ?" 

The  man  advances  towaid  the  bod,  and  holds  out  something 
to  Sydney. 


"DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX"  1 8$ 

"  Would  you  please  to  look  at  this,  miss,  and  tell  me  if  you 
know  it  ?  " 

She  takes  it  and  utters  a  cry.  It  is  a  locket  attached  to  a 
fragment  of  broken  chain. 

•'  It  is  Bertie's,"  she  says;  "  his  locket,  papa — with  his  mother's 
picture,  the  one  he  always  wore  on  his  watch-chain.  Look ! " 

She  places  it  in  her  father's  hand.  He  recognizes  it,  as  shs 
does,  the  instant  his  eyes  fall  upon  it. 

"  It's  the  missing  young  gentleman's,  then?"  asks  the  man. 
"  I  thought  so.  Could  you  tell  me,  miss,  what  sort  of  a  neck- 
tie he  wore  the  evening  you  see  him  last  ?  " 

"  A  blue  necktie,"  Sydney  answers,  without  a  second's  hesi- 
tation. "  A  dark-blue  necktie  no  broader  than  a  strip  of  nar- 
row ribbon." 

"Is  this  it?"  says  the  man.  He  takes  out  of  his  vest  pocket 
a  tiny  paper  parcel,  opens  it,  and  displays  what  looks  like  a 
strip  of  narrow  dark  blue  ribbon  torn  in  two. 

"It  is,"  Sydney  exclaims;  "I  am  sure  of  it!  The  ends  are 
peculiarly  stitched  with  white  ;  Mr.  Vaughan  had  this  on  his  neck 
last  night  when  he  left  this  house.  Oh,  papa  !  what  does  this 
mean  ?  " 

"\Vhat  I  suspected  from  the  first,"  her  father  answered,  in  & 
husky  voice — "  that  Bertie  has  been  waylaid  and  murdered." 

Mrs.  Owenson  gave  a  faint  shriek  of  horror,  although  she  had 
been  asserting  as  much  ever  since  her  return  from  church 
Sydney  turns  cold  and  trembles.  But  the  old  fire  ul  in  the  sail- 
or's eye,  the  old  authoritative  ring  in  his  voice  as  he  speaks  : 

"  U'here  did  you  find  these  things,  my  man  ?    Speak  at  once." 

"1  found  them  early  this  morning,  the  locket  hanging  from  a 
cedar  bush,  half  way  down  Witch  Cliff,  the  necktie  torn  in  two 
pieces  as  you  see  it,  and  tramped  down  in  the  snow  on  the 
ground  above.  It  was  about  nine  in  the  morning,  and  I  was  on 
my  way  to  Bensonbridge,  five  miles  as  you  know, 'tother  side  ol 
this  house,  sir,  and  I  had  took  the  cliff  path  as  a  short  cut. 
Wlu-n  I  got  to  that  high  place,  Witch  Cliff,  1  could  see  the  snow 
all  tramped  and  trod  down,  as  if  a  couple  of  men  had  been 
scuffling  and  wrestling  along  the  very  edge  of  that  dangerous 
place.  A  piece  away  I  spied  these  bits  of  blue  ribbon,  torn  in 
two  and  tramped  into  the  snow  with  their  boots.  I  picked  them 
up  and  looked  over  the  edge,  kind  o1  skairt  like.  I  don't  sup- 
puse  I  would  have  seen  this  'ere  gold  thing,  but  the  sun  was  a 
shinin'  and  a  glistenin'  right  onto  it.  I  went  back  to  where 
there's  a  path,  and  reached  it.  It  was  hanging  from  a  cedai 


1 86  "DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VIVAT  REX.n 

bush,  as  if  whoever  wore  it  had  fell  down  and  it  caught  there 
and  snapped  off.  The  bush  was  a  strong  one,  but  it  was  rooted 
nearly  up,  like's  if  it  had  been  caught  holt  of  sudden,  and  nearly 
torn  from  the  roots.  I  was  skairt  square,  as  I  say,  but  I  had 
no  time  to  spare.  I  put  the  things  in  my  pocket  and  tramped 
on  to  Bensonbridge.  The  first  thing  I  hear  when  I  come  back 
was  this  'ere  story  about  the  missing  young  gentleman  as  was  to 
be  married.  I  says  nothin'  to  nobody,  but  I  came  right  here. 
And  that's  all  about  it." 

There  is  dead  silence  ;  Mrs.  Owenson  shrinks  shivering  into 
the  background  ;  the  captain's  eyes  are  full  of  fire,  and  Syd- 
ney stands  rigid,  her  face  like  white  stone  in  the  gray  dusk. 

"There  were  the  signs  of  a  struggle?"  her  father  asks. 
"  Were  there  any  traces  of  bloodshed  on  the  snow  ?  " 

"  None  at  all,  square — not  a  speck,  jest  the  shufflin'  and 
rtrugglin'  and  wrastlin'  like,  over  the  ground,  and  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  broke  and  crumbled  off  as  it  might  be  if  a  man  fell 
over.  And  straight  down  from  there  I  found  the  gold  thing  on 
the  bush.  I'm  afraid  there  ain't  no  two  ways  about  it,  but  that 
some  poor  fellow  fell  over  there  last  night." 

"  And  the  height  is " 

"  Eighty-foot,  square,  if  an  inch,  and  as  dangerous  a  place  as 
you'll  find  in  the  State.  The  sides  as  steep,  pretty  well,  as  the 
wall  of  a  house,  and  the  rocks  below  stick  up  like  spikes — the 
devil's  own  to  fall  on,  askin'  the  ladies'  pardon." 

"  There  was  no  sign "  the  captain  stops,  a  choking  in  his 

throat. 

"  Not  the  fust  sign,  square,"  the  man  answered,  understand- 
ing readily,  "  of  a  body  on  the  rocks.  The  tide  was  at  high- 
water  mark  about  eleven  last  night,  and  anything  that  fell  down 
there " 

He  pauses  and  looks  compassionately  at  Mrs.  Owenson,  who 
has  broken  out  into  dreadful  hysterical  crying  once  more.  A 
horrid  picture  is  before  her — Bertie,  her  handsome,  genial  Ber- 
tie, hurled  over  that  dreadful  place,  calling  aloud  in  his  agony 
for  help,  where  there  were,  none  to  hear,  lying  all  bleeding  and 
mangled  on  the  black-spiked  rocks  below,  until  the  long,  cold, 
cruel  waves  swept  nearer  and  nearer,  washing  over  his  white 
bruised  face,  and  carrying  him  off  on  their  black  breasts  out  tc 
the  awful  sea.  She  shrieks  aloud  in  her  horror,  and  Sydney  has 
to  go  over  and  take  her  in  her  arms. 

"  Mamma,  hush."  she  says,  imploringly,  "  you  will  hurt  papa. 
You  had  better  leave  the  room." 


"DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX"  187 

"  Yes,  leave  the  room,"  orders  the  captain,  and  poor,  terrified 
Aunt  Char  goes,  thinking  how  hard-hearted  and  utterly  without 
feeling  her  husband  and  daughter  are.  In  the  passage  she 
meets  Miss  Hendrick,  and  to  her  she  wails  forth  all  she  has 
heard,  all  she  has  imagined.  Cyrilla  listens  gravely  and  soothes 
her,  administers  red  lavender,  valerian  and  sympathy. 

Miss  Hendrick  has  her  own  version  of  Mr.  Vaughan's  disap- 
pearance, but  she  wisely  keeps  it  to  herself.  Not  for  one  second 
has  she  believed  him  dead.  To  her  mind  it  has  been  a  "  put- 
up  job  "  from  first  to  last.  He  waited  until  the  last  moment 
that  waiting  was  possible,  and  then  quietly  went  off  to  Dolly 
De  Courcy.  He  had  never  intended  to  marry  Sydney,  and  has 
been  too  great  a  coward  to  say  so.  She  recalls  the  night  of  the 
party,  the  meeting  and  parting  under  the  trees,  and  Miss  De 
Courcy  scurrying  home  alone  in  the  moonlight.  He  is  not  dead, 
Cyrilla  feels  sure,  but  somewhere  in  New  York,  comfortably 
under  Dolly's  protecting  wing.  She  says  nothing  of  what  she 
knows  and  suspects.  Better,  she  feels,  a  thousand  times  bet- 
ter, that  they  should  think  him  dead  than  know  him  false. 

She  listens  to  Aunt  Char's  story  now,  and  is  not  in  the  slight- 
est degree  shaken  in  her  belief.  The  torn  necktie,  and  broken 
chain  and  locket,  are  but  parts  of  his  well-laid  plan  to  throw 
them  off  the  track.  Very  weak-minded  men  have  some  of  the 
low  cunning  of  idiots  ;  there  is  no  end  to  the  depth  of  duplicity 
she  believes  Vaughan  to  be  capable  of.  She  smiles  scornfully 
to  herself  as  Mrs,  Owenson  paints  her  vivid  picture  of  Bertie 
bruised  and  broken  on  the  merciless  rocks.  No,  no !  Bertie's 
tender  form  is  unbruised,  his  symmetrical  limbs  unbroken,  his 
fair,  blonde  beauty  unscarred.  Probably  at  this  hour,  while 
they  sit  lamenting  him  here,  he  is  married  to  Dolly  De  Courcy. 

The  man  who  brought  the  token  has  left  the  sick-room  and  is 
speeding  back  to  town.  He  is  to  send  Mr.  Wynch,  the  chief 
magistrate,  to  the  Place.  He  comes  as  the  short  November 
day  ends,  and  the  lamps  are  lit,  and  is  closeted  with  the  sick 
man.  The  facts  are  laid  before  him,  and  when  Mr.  Wynch 
departs,  it  is  with  a  promise  to  do  everything  human  and 
magisterial  power  can  do  to  bring  the  mystery  of  last  night  to 
light. 

An  hour  later,  Harry  Sunderland,  looking  fagged  and  worn 
out,  calls.  He  has  discovered  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  he  says, 
spiritlessly.  He  is  almost  afraid  to  look  at  Sydney,  but  Sydney 
is  very  quiet,  her  head  resting  against  the  side  of  the  bed,  hej 
face  keeping  'ts  weary,  tearless,  patient  look. 


r88  "DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VIVAT  REX." 

Mrs.  Owenson  sits  up  with  her  husband  all  night ;  Sydney  is 
dispatched  to  bed.  She  goes  and  sleeps — there  is  no  better 
anodyne,  no  surer  anaesthetic,  than  heavy  trouble.  And  next 
morning  she  takes  her  post  by  the  bedside,  and  keeps  it  all  day 
long- 
It  is  a  very  sad  and  weary  day.  Her  father  has  those  dreadful 
spasms  more  than  once.  It  seems  at  times  as  though  he  cannot 
live  to  see  nightfall.  But  he  does,  and  that  nightfall  brings  no 
news.  They  are  not  one  step  nearer  the  development  of  the 
tragedy  than  at  first. 

They  have  sent  to  New  York  for  a  clever  detective,  and  place 
the  case  in  his  hands.  All  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  a 
murder  has  been  done,  but  i\\e.  primd  facie  evidence  of  murder 
(the  finding  of  the  body),  is  wanting  here.  Had  the  missing 
man  any  enemies  ?  the  detective  very  naturally  asks  ;  any  one 
at  all  interested  in  his  removal — a  rival  or  anything  of  that  sort  ? 
And  the  answer  is  unanimously,  no  ! 

So  far  as  all  who  were  acquainted  with  him  seem  to  know,  he 
had  neither  rival  nor  foe.  in  the  world. 

No  mention  is  made  of  Dolly  De  Courcy — no  one  except  Cy 
rilla  Hendrick  and  Ben  Ward  think  of  her  in  connection  with 
the  matter,  and  neither  of  them  will  speak.  Still,  by  dint  of 
inquiry,  the  detective  finds  out  on  the  second  day  the  little  epi- 
sode of  the  actress.  This  missing  young  gentleman  paid  her 
attentions,  and  deserted  her  for  the  young  lady  he  was  to  marry. 
The  actress  was  a  young  person  of  violent  temper,  and  not 
the  sort  to  stand  by  and  be  jilted  quietly.  The  detective  on  this 
hint  goes  up  to  New  York  and  ferrets  out  Dolly. 

She  is  easily  enough  found.  She  occupies  a  suite  of  three 
rooms  in  a  tenement  house,  with  her  mother.  Dolly  is  short 
and  snappish,  not  to  say  fierce,  and  knows  nothing  about  it. 
She  has  read  the  account  in  the  papers  ;  he  was  a  villain,  for 
whom  any  death  was  too  good  ;  he  treated  her  shamefully,  and 
whatever  has  happened  him,  she  is  glad  of  it.  And  then  Dolly 
does  tragedy,  and  the  fierceness  turns  to  sobs.  But  she  didn't 
kill  him,  does  the  detective  suppose  it  ?  She  glances  scornfully 
at  him  and  laughs  in  his  face.  Would  he  like  to  know  where 
she  was  that  night  ?  Well,  she  was  at  home  ;  he  can  ask  her 
mother,  if  he  doesn't  believe  her.  Mrs.  Snivelly — Snivelly  is 
the  name  of  Miss  De  Courcy"s  mother — being  summoned,  not 
only  asseverates  that  her  daughter  was  at  home  on  the  eventful 
night,  but  prays  that  she  "ma}'  never  stir"  if  she  wasn't,  and  is 
ready  to  take  her  arfadavy  of  the  same.  Dolly  and  Mrs. 


"DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX*  189 

are  triumphantly  prepared  to  prove  an  alibi,  and  the  detective 
returns  to  Wychcliffe  more  puzzled  than  he  came. 

A  week  passes ;  no  trace  is  to  be  found.  If  the  sea  holdi 
him  the  sea  keeps  its  secret  well.  Little  by  little  people  lose 
heart — the  detective  returns  to  New  York,  and  a  lull  comes  in 
the  search. 

At  Owenson  Place,  its  master  lies  dying — the  wonder  is  that 
he  has  lingered  so  long.  It  has  seemed  to  him  at  times  that  he 
'annot  die  until  his  boy  is  found,  but  death  is  here.  He  has 
never  known  how  dearly  he  loved  the  son  of  his  old  friend  until 
now. 

It  is  the  night  of  the  fifth  of  December,  a  cold,  white,  frosty 
night.  The  light  burns  low  in  the  sick  man's  room,  the  fire 
flickers,  and  on  his  bed  Captain  Owenson  is  drifting  out  to  a 
wider,  darker,  lonelier  sea  than  any  over  which  he  has  ever  sailed. 
In  her  old  place  Sydney  sits  beside  him,  silent,  pallid,  shadow- 
like,  thin  and  worn.  She  has  been  the  most  faithful,  the  most 
tender,  the  most  loving  of  nurses,  but  still  that  apathetic  trance 
holds  her  ;  she  hardly  knows  whether  she  is  suffering  or  not.  The 
sense  that  she  must  be  here  keeps  her  up,  but  she  is  not  con- 
scious of  any  acute  sorrow.  Her  heart  feels  numb.  Her 
mother  has  grown  used  to  her  dry  eyes  and  heartlessness, 
now,  but  she  never  ceases  to  deplore  it  to  her  one  sympathizer, 
Miss  Hendrick.  She  has  become  a  perfect  Niobe  herself, 
literally  drowned  in  tears.  She  cries  enough  for  both  ;  her  pale 
eyes  look  all  faded  and  washed  out  with  the  constant  briny  rain. 

"Sydney!" 

Sydney  starts  up.  She  has  been  resting  against  the  bed,  in 
a  dull  torpor  for  the  last  hour — a  torpor  that  is  not  sleep,  but 
is  almost  as  merciful. 

"Yes,  papa — here." 

"Always  'here,'  my  darling."  His  voice  is  very  faint  ;  the 
merest  whisper  indeed — his  face  is  all  drawn.  The  awful  seal 
and  signet  of  Death  is  stamped  upon  it.  "Sydney,"  he  says  in 
that  faint  whispering  voice,  "before  I  lose  all  power,  I  want  to 
£>ay  a  few  words  to  you.  There  isn't  much  time  left  now.  It's 
about — "  a  pause  and  a  gasp — "Bertie." 

"Yes,  papa." 

"They've  about  given  up,  haven't  they?  It  doesn't  take  long 
to  tire  them  ;  they  don't  care  whether  his  body  is  ever  found  or 
not ;  whether  his  murderer  is  ever  discovered.  And  I — oh  !  I 
cannot.  But  when  I  am  gone,  Sydney,  dont  give  it  up  ;  search 
for  his  body,  search  for  his  murderer — search — search ! " 


IQO  "DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  REX" 

11  Yes,  papa."  She  repeats  the  two  words  always  in  the  same 
weary,  worn-out  way — the  same  look  of  mute  misery  on  her 
face. 

"  Mor.ey  will  do  everything,  or  almost  everything,  in  this 
world,  and  you  will  have  enough  of  that — more  than  you  think. 
Keep  detectives  on  the  track,  find  Bertie's  body  and  bury  it  be- 
side me,  find  his  murderer,  and  give  him  to  the  hangman ! " 

His  eyes  flamed  up — a  faint  echo  of  the  old  fierce  ring  comes 
to  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  papa,"  Sydney  says  again  ;  she  hardly  knows  what  she 
is  saying,  poor  child. 

"  Never  give  it  up,  Sydney,"  he  pants,  "  never  as  long  as  you 
live.  Sometimes,  five,  ten,  twenty  years  pass  before  a  murderer 
is  found  ;  but  surely,  sooner  or  later,  the  dead  man's  blood 
will  cry  out  and  the  assassin  will  be  found.  And  whether  it  be 
five,  ten,  or  twenty  years,  if  he  ever  crosses  your  path,  hunt 
him  down,  bring  him  to  justice,  bring  him  to  the  gallows  for  the 
death  he  has  done  !  Sydney,  promise  me  this." 

"  I  promise,  papa." 

"Don't  forget !  Don't  let  years  blot  Bertie  from  your  mind. 
If  ever  you  meet  his  slayer,  hunt  him  down  ! " 

"Yes,  papa." 

He  has  exhausted  himself.  He  falls  gasping  back,  the  cold 
dew  standing  in  beads  on  his  face.  In  after  years  that  scene 
came  back  to  Sydney  far  more  vividly  than  she  saw  it  then. 
The  dimly-lit,  silent  room,  the  December  wind  blowing  outside, 
her  father's  burning  eyes,  and  the  straining,  whispering  voice — • 
her  own  weary,  half-conscious  answers.  It  never  left  her  to  the 
day  of  her  death. 

She  gave  him  a  few  drops  of  a  reviving  cordial,  and  then  resumed 
her  former  place  and  attitude,  her  heavy  eyelids  closing,  almost 
the  last  words  she  had  heard  Bertie  speak  sounding  dully  in  her 
mind  :  "  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death  ;  of  whom  may  we 
seek  for  succor  but  of  Thee,  O  Lord,  who  for  our  sins  are  justly 
displeased." 

What  a  weary  dreadful  time  it  all  was  ;  what  sins  had  they 
done  that  this  had  fallen  upon  them  ? 

Mrs.  Owenson  came  in  to  relieve  Sydney  and  watch  for  the 
night.  The  girl  spiritlessly  arose. 

"Good  night,  papa — I    do  hope  you  may  have  a  good-night." 

"I  will,  Sydney — I  am  sure  of  it.  My  little  one,  good- 
night." 

She  kissed  him  and  went.     He  turned  to  his  wife. 


"DEATH  IS  KING— AND    VI VAT  RhX»  i«?I 

"If  I  die  in  the  night — now  don't  cry !"  he  said  with  some  of 
nis  old  impatience — "don't  disturb  Sydney.  Don't  tell  her 
until  she  has  had  her  breakfast  in  the  morning." 

Then  there  is  silence.  Mrs  Owenson  stifles  her  sobs,  and  he 
lies  with  his  eyes  closed.  Presently  he  opens  them  and  holds 
out  his  hand,  with  the  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"  We  have  weathered  fair  weather  and  foul  weather,  for 
twenty-odd  years  side  by  side,"  he  says ;  "  and  you  have  been  a 
good  wife.  Good-night,  Char." 

She  clasps  his  hand,  and  kisses  and  cries  over  it,  and  he  does 
not  check  her.  Perhaps  he  is  thinking  he  has  been  rather  a 
hard  sailing-master  to  poor,  foolish  Char,  in  the  trying  voyage 
of  life.  Then  he  drops  into  a  heavy  slumber  with  his  face 

turned  from  the  light. 

********* 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  is  waiting  at  her  friend's  door  next  morning 
when  Sydney  comes  out  She  passes  her  arms  about  her  and 
kisses  her  gently. 

"How  is  papa?"  Sydney  asks. 

"Better,"  Cyrilla  answers  very  gravely.  "He  is  at  rest  this 
morning." 

She  leads  Sydney  down,  sees  her  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
eat  a  roll,  then  watches  her  toil  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  her  father's 
room. 

Her  mother  meets  her  as  she  opens  the  door,  and  takes  her 
in  her  arms. 

"  Oh  !  Sydney,  Sydney  !  "  she  sobs.  She  hasx^ried  all  night, 
cried  until  she  thinks  she  has  no  more  tears  left,  but  she  bursts 
out  afresh  at  sight  of  her  orphaned  child. 

Sydney  breaks  from  her  and  goes  over  to  the  bed.  How 
white  he  is — how  still  he  lies — how  peaceful  he  looks.  It  must 
be  an  easy  and  pleasant  thing  to  die  after  all  ! 

She  slips  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bed,  and  lays  her  face  on 
the  dead  hand. 

"  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death  ;  of  whom  may  we  seek 
for  succor,  but  of  Thee,  O  Lord,  who  for  our  sins — " 

There  is  a  faint  sobbing  sigh,  and  she  sinks  from  the  bedside 
to  tht?  floor.  For  the  first  time  in  her  bright,  harpy,  seventeen 
years,  Sydney  has  fainted  wholly  away. 


«*TWAS  ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING* 
CHAPTER  XXI. 

"'TWAS    ON   THE    EVENING   OF   A  WINTER'S    DAY." 

|  HE  last  night  of  a  short  February  day  was  dying  out 
over  the  city  of  Montreal,  it  had  been  a  day  of  bitter 
cold  ;  the  wind  had  swept  in  wild,  long  blasts  around 
Place  d'Armes  and  Champ  de  Mars,  and  up  and  down 
Notre  Dame  street,  all  the  sunless  day  long.  Now,  with  the 
fall  of  evening,  the  gale  had  fallen  too,  and  the  intense  cold  was 
slowly  but  surely  abating. 

At  the  window  of  a  house  in  a  solitary  end  of  the  city,  a 
young  girl  stood  looking  thoughtfully  out  at  this  gloomy  winter 
nightfall.  It  was  a  house  detached  from  all  others,  shut  in 
rather  extensive  grounds,  a  group  of  noble  horse-chestnuts  in 
front  lifting  themselves  in  the  gloaming  like  ebony  goblins 
against  a  sky  of  lead.  It  was  a  house  of  dull,  ugly  red  brick, 
with  small,  old-fashioned  windows,  and  a  general  air  of  neglect, 
and  desolation,  and  decay  about  it.  A  high  wooden  wall  in- 
closed the  grounds,  with  a  high  wooden  gate,  generally  closed, 
but  open  now,  showing  the  snowy  path  that  led  to  the  inhospit- 
able looking  front  door,  and  the  two  lighted  windows,  at  one  of 
which  the  watcher  stood.  Properly  she  was  not  a  watcher,  for 
she  was  looking  for  no  one  ;  she  was  only  gazing  aimlessly  out 
at  the  dismal  prospect  of  snow-covered  ground  and  starless  sky. 
It  was  Cyrilla  Hendrick,  and  the  house  was  Miss  Dormer's 
mansion,  in  the  good  French  city  of  Montreal. 

Within,  the  house  was  silent  as  a  tomb — without,  few  and 
faint  the  muffled  noises  reached  her.  Montreal  is  not  a  deaf- 
ening city  after  nightfall.  The  only  light  in  the  room  is  the 
light  of  a  large  coal  fire,  and  by  its  glow  the  apartment  is  dis- 
covered to  be  dingily  comfortable — the  red  hue  of  the  well- 
worn  carpet,  curtains,  chairs,  and  sofas  having  something  to 
do  with  the  look  of  warmth  and  comfort.  There  is  a  small, 
upright  English  piano,  a  few  dark  oil  paintings  in  fly-blown 
gilded  frames.  Everything  looked  the  worse  for  wear  and 
lack  of  cleanliness,  and  so  did  the  small  old  lady  dozing  in 
the  big  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire — Miss  Phillis  Dormer 
herself. 

It   is   seven   weeks   since   Miss    Hendrick   returned    home. 


"'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING."  193 

Home  !  She  never  calls  this  gruesome,  dull-as-death  house 
that  without  a  shudder.  But  her  home  it  is,  and  the  only  one 
she  is  likely  to  know  until  she  marries  Donald  McKelpin,  Es- 
quire, which  will  be  a  change  from  Scylla  to  Charybdis,  from 
the  fr\  ing-pan  to  the  fire.  All  the  same,  Miss  Hendrick  has 
quite  made  up  her  mind  to  make  it. 

As  she  stands  here  waiting  for  Joanna,  their  one  servant,  to 
come  in  with  the  tea-tray,  and  draw  the  curtains,  and  Miss 
Dormer  to  arouse  from  her  forty  winks,  she  goes  over  in  a  dreary 
way  all  that  has  happened  since  she  left  school — her  visit  to 
Sydney  Owenson,  that  brief  glimpse  of  a  brighter  world  that  was 
not  the  world  of  Bohemia,  and  Bertie  Vaughan's  mysterious 
disappearance.  Mysterious,  not  tragical — hardly  even  mysteri- 
ous to  Cyrilla's  mind.  No  light  whatever  had  as  yet  been 
thrown  on  the  darkness  of  that  extraordinary  bridal  eve,  no  news 
at  all  of  the  missing  bridegroom  ;  but  Cyrilla  still  clung  to  her 
first  firm  conviction,  that  Vaughan  had  plotted  the  whole  thing, 
and  was  now  comfortably  married  to  his  actress.  She  thought 
of  Captain  Owenson's  death — of  that  long  exhausted  swoon  of 
Sydney's,  from  which  it  had  taken  an  hour  to  arouse  her — of 
the  slow  miserable  fever  that  followed,  turning  her  head  and 
hands  to  fire,  and  her  body  to  ice — of  the  hopeless  apathy  from 
which  nothing  could  arouse  her,  the  weary  death-in-life  torpor 
into  which  the  poor,  over-worn  child  sank.  Then  came  Miss 
Dormer's  imperious  letter :  Was  she  ever  coming  back?  Had 
she  engaged  herself  as  hired  companion  to  Mrs.  Owenson,  or  as 
sick-nurse  to  her  daughter  ?  Would  she  kindly  remember  that 
she.  her  aunt,  was  ailing  and  alone,  and  return  at  once  to  Mont- 
real ?  It  was  so  nearly  Christmas  now,  there  was  no  use  going 
back  to  school.  Inclosed  her  niece  would  find  a  return  ticket, 
••  ( iood  for  Tuesday,  December  i2th,  only." 

Cyrilla  packed  her  trunk,  and  went  back,  not  altogether  sorry. 
Owenson  Place  was  a  house  of  mourning  now  ;  the  fountain 
of  Mrs.  Owenson's  tears  as  inexhaustible  as  ever,  and  Sydney 
did  not  seem  to  care  whether  she  stayed  or  went.  It  was  inex- 
pressibly dreary.  Even  Dormer  House — so  Miss  Dormer  styled 
h*;r  red  brick  building  at  the  top  of  her  letters—might  prove 
agreeable  as  a  change,  and  there  at  least  she  would  have  Mr. 
M<  Kdpin's  wooing  fora  mild  amatory  stimulant. 

In  the  middle  of  a  whirling  December  snow-storm,  Miss  Hen- 
drick's  cab  drove  up  to  the  wooden  gate.  The  cabman  carried 
in  her  trunk,  bag  and  shawl,  and  Cyrilla,  looking  tall  and  hand- 
some, and  not  in  the  least  like  the  beggarly  daughter  of  Vaga« 
9 


1 94  "'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING." 

bondia  she  was,  went  up  to  the  stiff  backed  arm-chair,  and 
stooped  her  high-bred  olive  face  over  the  withered  countenance 
of  Miss  Dormer. 

"  Dear  aunt  !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  looking  so  well. 
How  good  it  seems  to  be  at  home  again,"  she  said,  kissing  her. 

Miss  Dormer  laughed — the  shrill,  scornful  cackle  Cyrilla  re- 
membered so  well. 

"Ha  I"  the  cynical  old  voice  said.  "You  do  well  to  begin 
in  time,  Niece  Cyrilla.  'How  glad  you  are  to  see  me  looking 
so  well,'  indeed  !  Much  you  care  whether  I  am  well  or  ill,  so 
that  I  leave  you  my  money  when  I  die.  '  How  good  it  seems  to 
be  at  home  again  ! '  I  wonder  when  you  would  have  left  your 
fine  friends  and  come  home,  if  1  hadn't  made  you?  Don't  try 
it  on  with  me,  Niece  Cyrilla ;  I'm  too  elderly  a  bird  to  be 
caught  with  chaff." 

This  was  Cyrilla's  welcome  to  the  only  home  she  had  on 
earth.  She  moved  away  from  her  aunt's  chair,  with  a  bitter 
smile. 

"  Thank  you  for  reminding  me,  Aunt  Phil.  I  won't  try  it 
again.  I  suppose  I  may  go  to  my  room  ?  " 

"Yes,  go,  and  make  yourself  as  good-looking  as  you  like. 
You  ought  to  be  good  looking,  with  all  the  fine  clothes  I  had 
to  pay  for,  for  the  wedding — the  wedding  that  never  came  off, 
ha  !  ha  !  Make  haste,  and  come  back  and  tell  me  all  about 
it." 

Cyrilla  reappeared  in  one  of  the  wedding-dresses,  a  soft,  rich 
blue  merino,  trimmed  with  black  lace,  Bertie  Vaughan's  hand- 
some locket  and  chain  on  her  neck,  and  sweeping  into  the  dim 
dingy  room  like  some  slender  young  duchess. 

Mr.  McKelpin  was  coming  to  tea,  and  to  inspect  his  future 
wife,  and  preparations  were  on  a  scale  of  magnitude  accordingly. 
The  old  silver,  and  cut  glass,  and  fine  Irish  linen  napery,  were 
got  out ;  there  were  cold  meat,  and  sliced  tongue,  and  mashed 
potatoes,  and  hot  rolls  for  supper. 

"  If  that  estimable  man,  Mr.  McKelpin,  had  a  weakness," 
said  Miss  Dormer,  grimly,  to  her  niece,  "  it  was  his  stomach. 
.  It  was  well  to  inform  her  in  time  since  it  was  to  be  her  life's 
destiny  to  cater  to  that  organ." 

Meantime  she  devoured  Cyrilla  with  questions  concerning 
the  wedding  that  "  was  to  have  been  and  never  was."  She 
showed  a  honible,  a  greedily  repulsive  delight  in  every  detail. 
How  did  the  bride  bear  it  ?  Was  she  overwhelmed  with  pain 
and  shame,  with  mortification  and  disappointment  ? 

. 


"'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING*  19$ 

"Not  at  all,  Aunt  Phil,"  Cyrilla  responded,  coolly.  "She 
didn't  care  for  the  man.  From  first  to  last  she  thought  only  of 
her  father.  You  must  remember  she  wasn't  in  love — that  makes 
a  difference." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  makes  a  difference,"  said  Phillis  Dormer,  set- 
ting her  false  teeth,  the  old  fierce  light  flaming  up  in  her  dull 
eyes. 

Was  she  thinking  of  that  old  pain  and  shame,  forgotten  by 
all  the  world  now  save  herself  ?  Was  the  wound  so  long  ago 
given  not  healed  yet  ?  Was  it  possible  even  a  scar  remained 
after  five-and  twenty  years  ? 

"  Do  you  hear  from  England  often  ?"  was  her  next  question. 

"  I  never  hear,"  Cyrilla  responded  with  a  sigh.  "  Poor  papa 
may  be  dead  and  buried,  for  what  I  know." 

"  And  a  very  good  thing,  too,  if  he  is,"  said  Jack  Hendrick's 
affectionate  half-sister.  "  When  men  are  of  no  use  in  the  world 
the  best  thing  they  can  do  is  to  leave  it.  Did  I  tell  you,  Niece 
Cyrilla,  that  Mr.  McKelpin  was  coming  to  tea?" 

"  You  mentioned  that  fact,  Aunt  Dormer." 

"  He's  coming  to  look  a.\.you"  pursued  the  old  lady,  grimly. 
"  If  he  likes  your  looks  he'll  ask  you  to  marry  him." 

"  What  bliss  !  "  murmurs  Miss  Hendrick.  "  To-night, 
aunt  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  impertinent,  miss.  No,  not  to-night ;  whenever 
it  suits  him.  That's  if  he  likes  your  looks  ;  if  he  doesn't " 

"  Ah,"  don't  mention  the  dreadful  contingency  !  "  interrupts 
Cyrilla,  with  a  shudder ;  "  let  me  at  least  live  in  hope  until  the 
fatal  hour  comes.  Surely  the  lowliest  of  his  handmaidens  will 
find  favor  in  my  lord's  sight  !  " 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Niece  Cyrilla.  If  there  is  one  thing 
men  hate — and  naturally — above  another,  it  is  a  sarcastic 
woman.  And  don't  interrupt  me  again.  If  you  marry  Mr. 
M<  Kelpin  I  mean  to  make  you  my  heiress,  feeling  sure  that 
my  money  will  never  be  idly  squandered  in  his  possession.  If 
he  doesn't  care  to  marry  you,  I  will  leave  you  five  thousand 
dollars.  Meantime  you  are  to  read  to  me,  nurse  me  when  I 
am  sick,  play  and  sing  for  me,  and  make  yourself  useful  and 
agreeable  generally.  I  receive  no  company — none  whatever. 
Mr.  McKelpin  and  the  doctor  are  the  only  men  who  ever  cross 
my  front  door.  And  I  shall  countenance  no  gadding  on  your 
part — quiet  and  decorous,  willing  to  resign  your  own  pleasure 
to  mint-,  I  expect  you  to  be.  There  is  Mr.  McKelpin's  knock. 
Joanna  will  answer  it  to-night — after  to-night  it  will  be  one  <jf 


196  "'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING." 

your  duties  to  go  to  the  door.     The  kitchen  is  distant,  and 
Joanna  is  slow." 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  McKelpin — this  is  my  niece,  Cyrilla." 

A  short,  stout  man,  in  a  heavy  overcoat,  had  entered,  a  man 
with  a  white,  flabby,  solemn  face,  scanty  red  hair,  and  bushy 
red  whiskers  ;  a  man  who  shook  hands  with  Miss  Dormer  and 
who  nodded  coldly  and  severely  to  Miss  Dormer's  niece.  For 
Cyrilla,  she  just  inclined  that  dark,  imperial  head  of  hers  about 
the  sixteenth  of  an  inch. 

"  I  am  verra  glad,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  McKelpin,  addressing 
himself  to  the  lady  of  the  house  in  a  deep,  husky  voice  and  a 
Scotch  accent,  "  that  your  niece  is  back  with  you  again. 
Running  about  does  no  young  woman  good,  depend  upon  it, 
ma'am." 

"  But  I  haven't  been  running  about,  Mr.  McKelpin,"  put  in 
Miss  Hendrick,  opening  her  eyes.  "  I  never  run.  Indeed,  I 
have  been  severely  reproved  more  than  once  at  school  for  the 
slow  manner  in  which  I  walk." 

Mr.  McKelpin  gazed  at  ner  gravely  for  a  moment  in  reprov- 
ing silence.     It  is  said  it  requires  a  surgical  operation  ever  to 
get  a  joke  into   a  Scotchman's  head.     If  you   had   split   Mi 
McKelpin's  open  like  a  cocoa-nut  you  couldn't  have  got  in  the 
broadest  piece  of  sarcasm. 

"  I  did  na  refer,"  said  Mr.  McKelpin,  with  a  magisterial 
wave  of  the  hand,  "  to  actual  running  in  the  sense  you  mean. 
Home  is  the  spot  for  every  young  woman,  where  she  may 
lairn  the  science  and  duties  of  the  household,  and  the  state 
in  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  place  her." 

"  H'm  !  let  us  go  to  tea,"  said  Miss  Dormer.  She  detected, 
if  her  solemn  friend  did  not,  the  irrepressible  twinkle  of  mis- 
chief in  Cyrilla's  black  eyes,  and  the  fresh  impertinence  ready 
on  her  lips.  "  Niece  Cyrilla,  wheel  me  to  the  head  of  the  table." 

And  then  profound  silence  ensued. 

"  For  what  we  air  to  receive,  gude  Lord  make  us  thenktul," 
said  Mr.  McKelpin,  running  his  eyes  approvingly  owr  the  cold 
meats  and  hot  cakes. 

No  more  was  said  for  ten  minutes,  but  actions  sometimes 
.speak  louder  than  words,  and  Cyrilla's  serious  suitor  was  be- 
yond mistake  enjoying  himself.  The  first  pangs  of  hunger 
assuaged,  Miss  Dormer  and  her  guest  appropriated  the  conver- 
sation ;  or  had,  in  the  native  dialect  of  the  gentleman,  "  a  tvva- 
handed  crack  "  over  the  weather,  the  times,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
pundry  stocks,  in  which  both  were  interested  ;  and  gradually,  Cy. 


«>TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING?  1 97 

rilla's  thoughts  drifted  away  hundreds  of  miles,  and  she  forgot 
both. 

What  was  Fred  Carew  about  ?  When  would  she  hear  from 
him  again  ?  His  regiment  was  not  coming  to  Montreal  until 
February — what  a  dreary  time  away  February  seemed. 

After  tea,  by  order  of  the  chatelaine,  Miss  Hendrick  aired  hei 
accomplishments  for  the  benefit  of  her  prospective  husband  , 
she  played,  she  sang,  she  showed  her  drawings,  she  recited  a 
poem  in  French  and  another  in  German,  of  which  languages  Mr. 
McKelpin  knew  as  much  as  he  did  of  Coptic  and  Runic.  "But 
he  deigned  to  listen  soberly  to  all,  his  ten  fingers  clasped  before 
him  as  though  in  prayer — his  chalky  sodden  face  never  losing 
its  owl-like  solemnity. 

"  Verra  good,  ver-r-a  good,  indeed,"  he  said,  when  the  per- 
formance ended.  "  You've  improved  your  opportunities  I  make 
no  doubt.  But  these  things  are  but  vanities  and  frivolity  at 
best.  Housekeeping  in  a'  its  brenches  and  ramifications  is  the 
great  accomplishment  the  young  miss  o'  the  praisent  day  should 
lairn." 

"  My  niece  Cyrilla  will  begin  to-morrow,"  put  in  the  piping 
voice  of  Miss  Dormer.  "  It  is  my  intention  she  shall  spend 
three  hours  of  each  day  in  the  kitchen  under  the  instructions  of 
Joanna." 

And  so  life  began  for  Cyrilla.  Three  hours  a  day  in  a  calico 
dress,  in  a  hot  kitchen,  under  the  tuition  of  a  deaf  old  cook, 
learning  the  mysteries  of  puddings  and  pies,  roasts  and  broils,  for 
the  future  delectation  of  Donald  McKelpin.  Four  hours  of 
reading  and  playing  for  Aunt  Dormer  ;  no  visitors,  no  going  out, 
except  at  stated  times  with  a  market  basket.  Cyrilla's  soul 
loathed  it  all.  She  hated  household  duties ;  she  abhorred 
cooking  :  she  nearly  stifled  herself  with  yawns,  reading  aloud. 
Oh  !  the  deadly — deadly  dullness  of  it !  Then  Mr.  McKel- 
pin's  evenings,  three  in  a  week,  to  play  long  whist  at  a  penny  a 
game  with  Miss  Dormer,  each  greedily  eager  to  win,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  her  yawning  drearily  in  the  background.  What  a 
Christmas  that  was — what  a  New  Year — what  a  January  1 
Would  Cyrilla  ever,  ever  forget  it ! 

But  the  stagnant  calm  was  near  its  end,  and  Mr.  McKelpin, 
of  all  men,  the  man  to  break  it. 

Stolid,  dull,  lumbering  as  the  man  was,  he  yet  was  a  man,  and 
as  such  bad  from  the  first  cast  an  eye  of  approval  upon  the  tall 
symmetrical  figure,  and  haughtily  handsome  face  of  Miss  DOT 
mer's  youthful  relative. 


igS  "'TWAS  ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING* 

"Your  niece  is  a  verra  well-favored  young  woman,  Miss  Dor 
mer,"  was  all  he  had  ever  said  about  it ;  but  the  admiration  was 
there,  and  in  due  course  of  time  worked  itself  out  of  his  slow 
soul  to  the  surface.  One  evening  early  in  February,  at  half  past 
eight  to  a  minute  (he  religiously  left  at  nine),  Mr  McKelpin 
opened  his  mouth,  and  in  words  grave,  sedate  and  few,  in  the 
presence  of  the  two  ladies,  asked  the  younger  to  do  him  the 
favor  of  becoming  his  wife. 

"There's  a  disparity  o'  years,  T  am  well  aware,"  slowly  and 
austerely  said  Donald  McKelpin,  "  but  the  disparity  is  on  the 
right  side.  For  my  own  pairt,  I  think  it's  always  best  for  a  frivo- 
lous young  pairson  of  the  female  sex  to  be  united  in  wedlock 
wi'  a  man  considerably  her  senior.  You  have  given  me  to  un- 
derstand, Miss  Dormer,  that  you'll  look  wi'  the  eye  o'  favor  on 
the  match,  and  so,  if  Miss  Cyrilla's  willing,  in  the  name  o' 
Providence,  we'll  consider  the  thing  settled." 

And  the  thing  was  settled.  What  she  said  to  this  impas- 
sioned declaration  Cyrilla  never  knew;  she  was  only  conscious  at 
the  time  of  a  hysterical  desire  to  burst  out  laughing.  But  Aunt 
Phil's  fierce  old  eye  was  upon  her,  so  she  controlled  the  insane 
desire,  'and  there  and  then  became  the  affianced  of  Mr. 
Donald  McKelpin.  The  next  time  he  came  he  brought  with 
him  an  engagement  ring  of  plain  gold,  his  mother's  wedding 
ring,  in  fact,  and  worn  rather  thin,  and  with  elephantine  playful- 
ness pressed  it  upon  his  bride's  acceptance. 

Miss  Hendrick  took  it  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  and 
put  it  on  the  finger  that  wore  poor  Freddy  Carew's.  Poor 
Freddy  Carew,  indeed !  He  wrote  to  Miss  Hendrick  regularly, 
and  as  Miss  Hendrick  always  answered  the  door  she  received 
his  letters  without  the  slightest  trouble  or  danger,  and  most  regu- 
larly responded.  Mr.  Carew,  therefore,  was  not  left  to  pine 
in  ignorance  of  Miss  Hendrick's  matrimonial  good  fortune. 
This  cold  February  day  on  which  she  stands,  idly  gazing  out  of 
the  window,  has  been  a  day  more  than  usually  eventful  among 
the  eventless  days  of  her  life.  The  early  morning  mail  brought 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Owenson  announcing  her  departure  with 
Sydney  for  New  York,  to  spend  March  and  April. 

"  My  dear  girl  is  still  in  miserably  poor  health  and  low  spirits," 
wrote  Mrs.  Owenson,  "  and  I  am  taking  her  to  my  cousin's, 
Mrs.  Macgregor,  of  Madison  Avenue.  Change  of  scene  and 
the  cheerful  companionship  of  her  cousins  will  no  doubt 
cheer  her  up.  In  May  we  go  to  Europe,  to  remain  two  years 
at  least.  Sydney  will  write  further  particulars  by  next  mail." 


«*TtPAS  ON  A   WINTER'S  EVENING."  199 

Happy  Sydney  Owenson !  Cyrilla  enviously  sighs.  Yes 
happy,  thrice  happy  in  spite  of  her  bereavement.  To  Miss  Hen- 
drick  it  looks  no  such  great  bereavement  after  all.  She  didn't 
care  for  Bertie  Vaughan,  empty-headed,  conceited  noodle  that  he 
was  !  and  for  her  father — well,  of  course,  a  doting,  respectable 
and  rich  father  is  a  person  to  be  grieved  for — still,  to  Miss 
Hendrick's  philosophic  mind,  it  wasn't  a  grief  to  embitter  the 
life  of  an  heiress.  A  winter  in  New  York — ah !  lucky 
Sydney — two  years  in  Europe — thrice-blessed  orphan  heiress  ! 
Beauty  and  wealth  unlimited.  Yes !  Sydney  Owenson  was 
one  of  the  elect  of  the  earth,  one  of  the  darlings  of  the 
gods. 

The  second  event  was  the  news  that  morning's  paper  had 

given  her.  The  th  had  arrived  in  Montreal,  and  were 

quartered  here  for  the  winter.  So  !  Freddy  was  come,  and  she 
would  see  a  sympathetic  human  face  at  last. 

The  third  event  was  the  departure  of  Mr.  McKelpin  for  Scot- 
land on  the  morrow,  to  be  absent  until  the  first  week  in  June. 
The  wedding  is  fixed  for  the  close.  This  will  be  the  last  night 
for  over  three  months  the  devoted  Donald  will  spend  in  the 
company  of  his  betrothed.  But  as  she  stands  here  and  looks 
dreamily  out,  it  is  not  of  her  betrothed,  I  regret  to  say,  Miss 
Hendrick  is  thinking.  Where — when — how — will  she  see  Fred 
Carew  ?  Poor  Freddy  !  he  has  not  said  much  in  his  letters 
about  her  faithlessness,  but  the  news  of  her  betrothal  has  been 
as  gall  and  wormwood  to  him,  she  knows. 

"  Shut  the  shutters,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and  don't  stand  mooning 
there  all  night.  1  suppose  you  have  been  crying  quietly  over 
the  departure  of  Mr.  McKelpin  ?  " 

Thus  sharply  and  sneeringly  aroused  from  her  nap  by  Miss 
Dormer,  Cyrilla  obeys. 

"  I  never  cry,  Aunt  Phil ;  it  is  one  of  the  principles  of  rny 
life,  and  not  even  for  Mr.  McKelpin's  sweet  sake  can  I  break 
through  it.  Shall  I  tell  Joanna  to  fetch  in  tea  ?  " 

"  You'll  get  something  to  cry  for  yet,  mark  my  words,  hard 
as  you  are,"  croaks  Miss  Dormer. 

"As  Mr.  McKelpin's  wife?  I  think  it  extremely  likely," 
cheerfully  assents  Cyrilla.  "  Still  I  shall  put  off  the  evil  day 
until  the  evil  day  comes.  Shall  I  call  Joanna?" 

"  Yes,  call,"  says  Aunt  Phil,  snappishly.  Their  encounters 
are  sharp  and  frequent,  and  she  generally  finds  herself  worsted. 
Cyrilla  is  her  dependent,  certainly,  but  Cyrilla  does  not  hold 
her  pauper  head  in  that  haughty  way  for  nothing.  She  keeps 


aoo  "'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING." 

her  own  well  with  Miss  Dormer,  and  Miss  Dormer  likes  her  none 
the  less  for  it. 

Joanna  comes  with  their  daily  bread  and  butter  and  cold 
meat.  It  is  a  silent  meil.  The  old  maid  is  thinking  how  she 
•will  miss  long  whist  and  Mr.  McKelpin,  in  the  empty,  endless, 
March  evenings  so  near.  The  young  maid  is  thinking  how  much 
brighter  a  look  life  has  taken  on  since  FredCarew  is  in  Montreal. 

Half-past  seven  brings  Mr.  McKelpin.  He  shakes  hands  in 
a  stiff  way  with  his  affianced,  and  hands  her  that  evening's  paper, 
and  sits  down  to  his  last  game  with  Miss  Dormer.  There  is 
silence  ;  a  paraffin  lamp  burns  between  them,  the  fire  looks  red 
and  cheerful,  the  room  cozy  and  comfortable,  contrasted  with 
the  bleak  coldness  of  the  winter  night  outside.  Miss  Hendrick 

is  reading  the  paper,  searching  for  further  news  of  the th, 

when  loud  and  long  there  comes  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  The  postman  !  "  cries  Cyrilla,  starting  up ;  "  a  letter  from 
Sydney." 

She  rushes  from  the  room,  down  the  stairs,  and  throws  open 
the  door.  A  man  stands  there,  but  it  is  not  the  postman.  He 
is  not  so  tall  as  the  postman,  and  he  looks  military.  He  wears 
a  sealskin  jacket  and  cap,  the  visor  of  the  cap  pulled  over  his 
eyes — he  wears  sealskin  gloves  and  carries  a  cane. 

"  Ah-h  ! "  says  this  gentleman;  "can  you  tell  me  if  Mrs. 
Brown  lives  here  ?  " 

Cyrilla  stands  petrified.  Surely  she  knows  that  voice  Her 
heart  beats  as  it  has  not  beaten  for  four  months.  Can  it — can 
it  be 

"  Does  Mrs.  Brown  live  here,  Beauty  ?  "  asks  again  that  famil- 
iar voice. 

He  raises  his  cap ;  the  wan  glimmer  of  the  hall  lamp  falls  full 
on  his  face,  the  serene,  smiling  face  of  Fred  Carew. 

Miss  Hendrick  gives  one  gasp. 

"  Oh,  Freddy  !  "  is  what  she  says. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Beauty  ?  "  says  Mr.  Carew,  pleasantly. 
"Shake  hands,  won't  you,  or  is  it  permitted  the  future  Mrs. 
McKelpin  to  go  that  far  ?  You  see  I  got  to  Montreal  this  morn- 
ing, and  naturally  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  look  you  up." 

"But  to  come  here — to  Aunt  Dormers  house  !  Oh,  Fred  !  " 
Cyrilla  gasps  again. 

" 'i'o  the  dragon's  den.  But  then,  really  you  know,  I  possess 
an  overwhelming  amount  of  courage.  And  I  knew  from  youi 
letters  that  no  one  ever  came  to  the  door  but  yourself.  You 
told  me,  you  remember  ?  " 


"'TWAS  ON  A    WINTERS  EVENING."  201 

"  But  I  dare  not  stay.  Aunt  Dormer  will  miss  me  ;  she  and 
Mr.  McKelpin  are  playing  cards  now." 

"  But  you  can  go  back  and  steal  out  again,  can't  you,  Beauty  ? 
Say  you  have  a  headache  and  want  to  go  to  your  room.  I'll 
wait  yonder  under  the  trees.  Only  don't  keep  me  long.  Even 
friendship  so  glowing  and  ardent  as  mine  may  get  chilled  if 
kept  too  long  in  a  Montreal  February  night." 

"  I'll  try  !  I'll  come  !  "  Cyrilla  exclaims.  "  Wait,  Freddy  ; 
I'll  be  with  you  in  ten  minutes ! " 

She  shuts  the  door  and  flies  back.  The  glad,  excited  gleam 
of  her  eyes  might  tell  its  story,  but  the  card-players  are  too 
much  engrossed  with  their  game  to  take  heed. 

"  Well,  who  was  it  ?"  Miss  Dormer  querulously  asks.  She 
has  lost  ninepence  and  feels  badly  accordingly.  "  More 
letters?" 

"  No  ;  a  man  ;  he  asked  if  Mrs.  Brown  lived  here,"  demurely 
answered  Miss  Hendrick. 

"  Mrs.  Brown,  indeed.  Your  deal,  Mr.  McKelpin  ;  luck 
will  surely  turn  this  time.  Did  you  bolt  the  door  after  him, 
Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  Certainly.     Aunt  Dormer  !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  While  you're  finishing  this  game  I'll  run  up  to  my  room — my 
head  rather  aches,  and  I'll  bathe  it  with  camphor." 

Miss  Dormer  is  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  new  deal  to  re- 
ply. Cyrilla  departs.  Five  seconds  later  and  she  is  under 
the  stripped  chestnuts,  both  hands  clasped  fast  in  Fred  Carew's. 

"  Oh,  Fred,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  How  good  of  you  to 
come." 

"  Goodness  is  my  normal  state,  Beauty."  The  first  greetings 
are  over  by  this  time.  "  And  so  I  really  behold  before  me  the 
affianced  of  Mr.  Donald  McKelpin  ?  " 

"  You  really  do,  and  as  such  please  relinquish  my  hands  ;  my 
shawl  is  as  warm  as  as  your  fur  gloves.  Mr.  McKelpin  doesn't 
approve  of  indecorous  familiarities." 

"  Doesn't  he?  Excepting  himself,  of  course.  He  is  privi- 
eged,  lucky  beggar  !  "  says  Mr.  Carew,  with  a  sigh. 

"Not  even  excepting  himself.  He  comes  three  evenings  a 
week,  says  '  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Cyrilla  ?  '  and  gives  me  a  hand 
like  a  dead,  damp  fish.  1  never  know  what  to  do  with  it,  so  I 
give  it  back  to  him  again." 

"  And  when  is  the  wedding  to  come  off,  may  I  ask,  Miss 
Hendrick  ?  " 
9* 


202  "'TWAS   ON  A    WINTER'S  EVENING." 

"  You  may  ask,  Mr.  Carew.  To  come  off,  Deo  volente,  the 
last  week  of  June." 

"Beauty,"  Mr.  Carew  says,  gravely,  "how  is  this  to  end?" 

"  In  a  cold  in  the  head  for  me  most  likely,"  laughs  Cyrilla, 
wilfully  misunderstanding.  "  Don't  look  so  doleful,  Fred — it 
doesn't  become  you.  June  is  June — this  is  February,  and  I  am 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  still.  He  goes  off  to-morrow — Dieumerci — • 
to  be  gone  three  months.  Oh,  if  some  kind  Christian  would 
invite  me  out  to  spend  an  evening,  we  might  meet  and  have  a 
chat  now  and  then." 

"That  is  easily  enough  managed,  if  your  dragon  will  let  you 
go.  Mrs.  Delamere  is  here,  and  she  shall  call  upon  you  and 
invite  you.  The  Colonel  is  about  to  retire  from  the  army,  and 
they  sail  for  England  in  April.  If  she  calls,  do  you  think  Miss 
Dormer  will  let  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  so  long  as  she  does  not  suspect  you  are  here. 
Warn  Mrs.  Delamere.  If  my  aunt  knew  you  were  in  Montreal, 
I  believe  she  would  never  let  me  out  of  her  sight.  And  now, 
Freddy,  I  positively  must  go." 

He  does  not  detain  her.  It  is  very  cold,  and  cold  Mr.  Carew 
does  not  like. 

"  Mrs.  Delamere  shall  call  to-morrow;  you  will  come  to  her 
house,  and  we  can  talk  things  over  where  the  thermometer  is 
not  a  hundred  or  so  below  zero.  Don't  make  your  farewells  to 
the  Scotchman  too  affectionate,  Beauty,  please,  because  my 
prophetic  soul  tells  me  you'll  never  write  your  name  Cyrilla 
McKelpin." 

The  game  of  whist  is  finished  as  she  enters,  and  the  clock  is 
striking  nine.  Miss  Dormer  has  won  her  ninepence  back,  and 
is  in  high  good  spirits  once  more.  Colorless  and  smileless,  Mr. 
McKelpin  stands  up  and  buttons  his  coat  to  go. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Dormer."  He  shakes  hands.  "  Goou-by, 
Miss  Cyrilla."  The  dead  damp  fish  is  extended  to  her.  "You'll 
write  to  me  occasionally,  I  hope,  while  1  am  gone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Cyrilla  answers,  with  cheerful  alacrity.  "  1 
wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage,  Mr.  McKelpin." 

He  is  gone.  Miss  Dormer  retires  to  her  room.  Joanna  bolts 
and  bars  the  house.  Cyrilla  makes  her  aunt's  night  toilet  and 
sees  her  safely  in  bed.  Then  she  goes  to  her  own  room,  lets 
down  her  hair,  and  looks  at  her  own  face  in  the  glass — a  fac : 
that  has  not  looked  back  at  her  with  so  happy,  so  bright  a 
glance,  for  three  weary  months.  As  she  looks  and  sm'les,  Fred 
Carew's  question  returns  to  her — "  Beauty,  how  is  this  to  end  ?  " 


"  Off,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL    COME    TO    YE"        203 

"  How,  indeed  !  "  she  thinks,  "  in  disaster  for  me,  I  haven't  ths 
slightest  doubt.  But  meantime  Donald  has  gone  and  Freddy 
has  come,  and  let  it  end  how  it  may,  I  shall  be  happy  until  the 
close  of  June,  at  least." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"OH,  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YE,  MY  LAD." 

R.  McKELPIN  departed  next  morning  from  Montreal, 
and  that  evening  there  was  no  long  whist,  a  penny  a 
game,  at  Dormer  House.  Instead,  Cyrilla  read  aloud 
a  drearily-dull  novel,  over  which  she  yawned  surrepti- 
tiously, and  Miss  Dormer  yawned  aloud.  And  this  was  but  the 
beginning  of  the  end,  the  elder  lady  thought  bitterly,  but  the 
beginning  of  a  long  series  of  such  dull-as-death  days  and  nights. 
True,  when  Mr.  McKelpin  was  Cyrilla's  husband  the  card-play- 
ing would  be  resumed,  but  meantime 

There  can  be  no  doubt  at  this  point  of  her  career  but  that  old 
Miss  Dormer  would  have  married  Donald  McKelpin  herself  for 
the  sake  of  his  society,  in  spite  of  her  fifty-odd  years  and  crooked 
back,  if  a  hopeless  infirmity  had  not  stood  in  her  way.  There 
can  also  be  no  doubt  but  that  McKelpin  would  have  married 
her  if  she  had  made  it  a  sine  qua  iwn.  No  one  in  Montreal 
knew  exactly  how  much  Miss  Dormer  was  worth  as  accurately 
as  he  did.  In  his  secret  soul  (if  he  possessed  such  a  sanctuary)  he 
may  have  preferred  the  slim,  dusk,  handsome  niece,  but  if  he  had 
had  to  choose  between  the  niece  of  nineteen,  penniless,  and  the 
aunt  of  five  and-fifty,  with  half  a  million,  Donald  would  not  have 
hesitated.  He  was  hard-headed  by  nature  and  by  nationality,  but 
he  was  not  destined  to  be  put  to  the  test.  Miss  Dormer  dying 
slowly  in  her  chair  of  an  incurable  distemper,  could  not  dream 
of  marriage  for  herself,  and  so,  as  the  next  best  thing,  passed  him 
on  to  Cyrilla.  In  any  case  she  meant  him  to  have  her  money, 
and  he  could  hardly  do  less  than  take  her  destitute  niece 
with  it. 

Another  heavy  day,  another  dragging  evening,  both  ladies 
gaping  over  their  insipid  novel  until  the  Fin:s  was  reached 


204         "  OH,   WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL    COME   TO    YE." 

Outside,  the  February  winds  rattled  the  trees  and  sent  the  sleet 
drifting  against  the  windows.  Inside,  firelight  and  lamplight  did 
their  best  to  dispel  the  vapors,  and  did  their  best  in  vain.  Phil 
lis  Dormer's  old  eyes  went  drearily  to  the  card-table  ;  Cyrilla 
Hendrick's  looked  restlessly  into  the  ruby  heart  of  the  fire,  and 
both  could  have  wailed  with  Tennyson  : 

"Oh,  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! " 

Only,  naturally,  each  was  thinking  of  a  different  hand  and 
voice. 

The  afternoon  of  the  third  day  brought  Mrs.  Delamere. 
Cyrilla,  as  usual,  answered  the  door,  and  after  ten  minutes' 
private  chat,  came  back  to  her  aunt's  room,  a  flush  of  hope  and 
expectation  in  her  eyes. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  Miss  Dormer  fretfully  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere,  aunt.  You  have  heard  me  tell 
how  kind  she  was  to  me  at  Petite  St.  Jacques.  The  Colonel  is 
about  to  retire  from  the  army,  and  they  sail  for  England,  where 
he  has  a  large  estate,  in  April.  Meantime  they  are  staying  in 
Montreal.  She  wishes  very  much  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Aunt  Dormer.  May  I  ask  her  up  ?  " 

Miss  Dormer  looked  keenly  and  suspiciously  at  her  niece. 

"  What  does  she  want  to  make  my  acquaintance  for,  a  crip- 
pled, miserable  old  creature  like  me  ?  What  does  she  want  of 
me?" 

"  She  wants  nothing  but  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you.  I 
told  her  you  never  saw  any  one,  but  she  begged  you  would 
kindly  make  an  exception  in  her  favor.  Shall  I  tell  her  you 
will  not  see  her  ?  " 

"  And  insult  a  stranger  in  my  own  house  ?  No,  Niece 
Cyrilla.  I  will  see  her.  Show  her  up." 

Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere,  imposing  in  brown  silk  and  velvets, 
was  shown  up  accordingly ;  and  quite  awed  for  a  moment,  by 
her  size  and  splendor,  even  grim  Aunt  Phil.  But  she  was  so 
cordial,  so  chatty,  so  friendly,  that  the  awe  speedily  vanished 
and  a  pleasant  excitement  took  its  place. 

She  stayed  for  over  an  hour,  retailed  all  the  news  of  the  day, 
discussed  Canada  and  England,  and  Miss  Dormer  actually 
experienced  a  feeling  of  regret  when  at  last  she  arose  to  go. 

"  I  have  overstayed  my  time,"  she  said,  with  her  soft,  mel- 
low laugh  ;  "  but  really,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  meet  a  kindred  spirit, 
and  countrywoman,  with  whom  to  abuse  Canada,  its  dreadfuj 


"OH%   WHISTLE,  AMD  PLL    COME   TO    YE."        205 

climate  and  dreadful  customs.  Dear  Miss  Dormer,  you  really 
shouldn't  lead  the  life  of  a  recluse,  an  you  do  ;  it  is  positively 
unkind  to  your  friends.  At  least  you  must  make  me  the  ex- 
ception to  your  rule.  And,  meantime,  as  a  great  favor,  I  must 
beg  of  you  to  let  this  child  come  to  see  me.  She  was  one  of 
my  especial  pets  at  Petite  St.  Jacques,  and,  remember,  I  leave  in 
April,  and  may  never  see  her  again." 

Miss  Dormer's  face  darkened. 

"  She  never  goes  out,"  she  said,  querulously  ;  "  I  can't  spare 
her." 

"  Ah  !  but,  dear  Miss  Dormer,  as  a  great  favor  to  me.  She 
and  Miss  Owenson  were  quite  like  my  own  daughters.  And  as 
she  tells  me  she  is  to  be  married  so  soon  to  a  most  estimable 
man — June,  is  it  not,  Cyrilla,  love  ? — you  should  allow  her  a 
little  more  liberty.  She  must  know  somebody  as  Mr.  McKel- 
pin's  wife.  I  am  sure  he  would  wish  it  himself,  and  I  promise 
you  she  shall  know  none  but  the  very  nicest  people." 

"Well,"  Miss  Dormer  said,  slowly  and  reluctantly;  "but, 
mind,  if  she  does,  no  gadding,  no  flirting  with  young  men — I 
won't  have  it." 

"  Flirting  !  "  Mrs.  Delamere  repeated,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 
"  Really,  Miss  Dormer,  how  can  you  think  such  a  thing  of  me  ? 
No,  no  !  even  if  our  dear  girl  were  inclined — and  I  am  sure 
she  is  much  too  sensible — I  would  never  countenance  such 
levity  in  an  engaged  young  lady.  I  receive,  next  Tuesday,  Cy- 
rilla, love.  The  carriage  shall  call  for  you  very  early.  Only  a 
few  friends,  Miss  Dormer — not  three  unmarried  men  among 
them.  Good  afternoon,  my  dear  lady,  and  a  thousand  thanks 
for  your  kind  permission." 

"Humph!"  grunted  Miss  Dormer,  distrustfully.  "You're 
a  deal  too  sweet,  ma'am,  for  my  taste — too  sweet  by  half  to  be 
wholesome  !  " 

Cyrilla  laughed  noiselessly  as  she  escorted  her  fat  friend  to 
the  front  door. 

"  How  well  you  did  it ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  an  unde- 
veloped talent  for  intrigue  you  must  possess,  Mrs.  Delamere  1 
I  believe  I  should  have  gone  melancholy  mad  before  spring  if 
you  had  not  come." 

Tuesday  night  was  five  days  off,  and  during  these  five  days 
Miss  Hendrick  saw  nothing  of  Mr.  Carew.  She  received 
several  notes  from  him,  however,  in  his  usual  brief  and  trench- 
ant  style  ;  ind  brightened  up  so,  under  their  influence,  ar.d  the 
thought  of  Tuesday  night,  that  she  looked  quite  a  new  being 


2ob        "OH,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME   TO    YE." 

Miss  Dormer  saw  it,  with  a  great  many  sneers  and  croaks,  bul 
Cyrilla  bore  all  with  angelic  patience.  Aunt  Phil  would  noi 
retract  her  plighted  word,  and  she  asked  no  more. 

Very  early — before  eight  o'clock,  in  fact — the  Delamert 
sleigh  was  at  the  door,  and  Cyrilla,  looking  very  eager  and 
handsome,  threw  on  her  wraps,  and  was  driven  off. 

"  Mind,  be  back  early — by  midnight  at  the  latest ! "  croaked 
Miss  Dormer  after  her.  "  Joanna  shall  sit  up  for  you." 

The  drive  was  not  ten  minutes  long.  Mrs.  Delamere's  "  fur- 
nished apartments  "  were  brilliant  with  gaslight ;  and,  early  as 
she  was,  Cyrilla  found  one  guest  before  her — a  very  tall,  elderly 
young  lady,  wearing  diamonds  and  cerise  silk,  and  to  whom  she 
was  introduced  as  "  Mrs.  Fogarty." 

"  I  had  no  idea  she  would  have  come  at  this  absurd  hour," 
whispered  Mrs.  Delamere  to  her  protegee.  "She's  a  widow,  out 
of  weeds,  as  you  see,  immensely  rich,  and  very  much  sought 
after  on  that  account.  Leaving  her  money  out  of  the  question, 
she  has  that  kittenish,  coquettish  style  that  takes — Heaven 
knows  why — with  men,  and  is  sure  to  make  a  heavy  evening  go 
off.  The  late  lamented  (his  name  makes  patent  his  nationality) 
was  forty  years  her  senior,  a  pork  man,  and,  as  I  have  said,  im- 
mensely rich.  After  the  two  years  of  nuptial  bliss  he  departed 
- — to  a  better  world,  let  us  trust,  since  he  was  frightfully  hen- 
pecked in  this." 

Miss  Hendrick  laughed  as  she  threw  off  her  cloak,  and 
smoothed  her  shining  coiled  hair. 

"  I  haven't  seen  much  of  Mrs.  Fogarty  as  yet,"  she  said, 
"  but  from  the  little  I  have,  I  should  think  any  change  the  pork 
man  could  make  would  be  for  the  better.  Two  years  of  her 
unalloyed  society  I  should  say  would  be  enough  to  kill  any  man." 

"  The  droll  thing  about  it  is,"  pursued  Mrs.  Delamere,  with 
an  odd  little  sidelong  glance  at  her  young  friend,  "  is  that  she  has 
come  here  at  this  unheard-of  hour,  and  overdressed,  as  you  per- 
ceive— all  for  the  sake  of  Fred  Carew." 

"  What  I"  exclaimed  Cyrilla,  knitting  her  brows. 

"  Perfectly  true,  I  assure  you.  She  met  him  three  days  ago 
for  the  first  time,  and  conceived  a  tendresse  for  him  at  sight. 
She  always  has  a  tendresse  for  some  one.  This  morning  she 
encountered  Carew  and  the  Colonel  in  St.  James  Street,  and  the 
Colonel,  in  his  usual  ridiculous  way,  told  her  Freddy  was  com- 
ing early — very  early,  to  smoke  a  cigar  with  him,  and  he  hoped 
she  would  come  early  also  and  help  entertain  him  !  The  re- 
sult— there  she  is  !" 


"  Off,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME   TO    YE."        207 

"  Is  the  woman  an  idiot  ?  "  Cyrilla  scornfully  asked. 

"Oh,  dear  no  !  Freddy  generally  does  make  an  impiession 
on  elderly  young  women  at  sight.  Witness  Miss  Jones  of  the 
Pensionnat.  Only  it  is  not  every  elderly  young  lady  who  wears 
her  heart  on  her  sleeve  as  frankly  as  does  Mrs.  Fogarty." 

"  For  the  sake  of  common  decency  I  should  hope  not,"  re- 
torts Miss  Hendrick  with  cold  scorn. 

"  Hush,  dear !  here  we  are,"  says  Mrs.  Delamere.  She  opens 
the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and  sails  majestically  in.  Miss 
Hendrick  follows  and  sees — Fred  Carew,  faultless  and  elegant 
to  behold,  a  camellia  in  his  button-hole,  sitting  on  a  sofa  by 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  side,  submitting  to  being  made  love  to,  with  his 
customary  serene  and  courteous  face. 

"  Mr.  Carew,  Miss  Hendrick.  You  may  remember  meeting 
Mr.  Carew  once  before,  Cyrilla,  love,"  says  Mrs.  Delamere, 
blandly.  And  Mr.  Carew  arises,  and  bows  pleasantly  and  makes 
a  smiling,  foolish  little  speech  about  "the  pleasure — er — of  re- 
newing Miss  Hendrick' s — um — acquaintance,"  etc.;  and  Miss 
Hendrick  bends  her  rather  haughty-looking  head,  and  moves 
disdainfully  away. 

A  batch  of  arrivals  enter;  the  hostess  sweeps  forward  to  meet 
them.  Mr.  Carew  makes  an  effort  to  get  up  and  follow  Miss 
Hendrick  to  where  she  has  seated  herself  at  a  distant  table,  and 
opened  that  refuge  of  the  destitute,  a  photographic  album.  But 
Mrs.  Fogarty  is  a  veteran  of  four-and-thirty,  although  she  does 
not  look  it,  and  is  equal  to  the  occasion.  For  the  sake  of  Mr. 
Carew  she  has  put  on  her  diamonds,  her  Point  d'Alencon,  and 
her  cerise  silk,  and  come  to  Mrs.  Delamere's  "  Tuesday  ;"  is  it 
likely  then  she  will  allow  Mr.  Carew  to  fly  off  at  a  tangent? 
In  her  practised  hands,  Freddy  is  as  an  artless  mouse  in  the 
grasp  of  a  skillful,  elderly  mouser.  By  her  side  he  is,  by 
her  side  he  shall  remain  ! 

And  he  does.  He  cannot  break  away— he  cannot  tell  how — 
he  makes  half  a-dozen  attempts — she  skilfully  meets  and  baf- 
fles them  all.  Without  positive  rudeness  he  cannot  quit  her  side ; 
and  positive  rudeness,  even  to  a  Mrs.  Fogarty,  is  something  Fred 
is  quite  incapable  of.  He  sees  Cyrilla  monopolized  by  half-a- 
dozen  of  his  brother  officers,  looking  handsome  and  brilliant — 
her  clear,  sarcastic  laugh  comes  to  him  where  he  sits,  and  he 
groans  in  anguish  of  spirit.  At  last — he  never  knows  how — he 
rises — he  says  something — Mrs.  Fogarty  may  know  what  ;  he 
never  does — makes  a  bow,  and  finds  himself  by  Cyrilla's 
side.  She  is  alone,  the  last  of  the  warriors  for  the  moment  has 


208         "  OJ,   WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME   TO    YE" 

deserted  her,  and  she  looks  upon  Mr.  Carew  with  no  frien  lh 
eye. 

"  '  Man's  inhumanity  to  man,'  "  murmurs  poor  Freddy,  in  a 
plaintive  tone,  "  'makes  countless  thousands  mourn.'  But  what  is 
it — oh  !  what  is  it — compared  with  the  inhumanity  of  woman?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  says  Miss  Hen- 
drick,  scornfully. 

"  I  tried  to  get  away,"  continues  Mr.  Carew  in  the  same  pite- 
ous voice,  "  give  you  my  honor  I  did,  Beauty,  more  than  once, 
and  she  wouldn't  let  me.  What  did  she  do  it  for  ?  What  grudge 
does  she  bear  me  ?  I  never  did  anything  to  her!  " 

"  Can't  you  see — imbecile,"  says  Miss  Hendrick,  still  more 
scornfully,  but  inclined  to  laugh  ;  the  woman's  in  love  with 
you — painted,  simpering  ninny  !  I  sat  here  and  watched  you, 
and  thought  I  never  in  all  my  life  saw  a  more  idiotic-looking 
pair  ! " 

"  In  love  with  me  !  Oh,  good  heaven  !  "  exclaims  Mr.  Ca- 
rew, so  much  genuine,  unaffected  horror  in  his  tone  that  Cyrilla 
laughs  outright.  "  You  never  mean  to  tell  me  that ! " 

"My  dear  Mr.  Carew,"  replies  Miss  Hendrick,  "a  woman 
who  will  paint  and  powder  to  the  extent  that  woman  is  painted 
and  powdered,  is  simpleton  enough  for  anything — even  to  falling 
in  love  with  you.  She's  seven-and-thirty  if  she's  a  day,  and 
she's  made  up  to  look  seventeen.  Observe  those  shoulder- 
blades  and  those  cheek-bones — women  never  get  that  look  this 
side  of  thirty.  She's  worth  no  end  of  money  made  in  Pork — 
with  a  large  P — and  she  has  cast  the  eye  of  favor  upon  your 
manifold  charms,  Freddy.  Let  me  be  the  first  to  congratulate 
you  !  " 

"Beauty,"  says  Mr.  Carew,  in  a  depressed  tone,  "let  us 
change  the  subject.  There  isn't  anything  that  woman  took 
into  her  head  she  couldn't  make  me  do.  So  the  dragon  let  you 
off  duty,  did  she?" 

"  As  you  see,  Fred,  else  I  wouldn't  be  here." 

"  Are  you  aware  I  have  been  on  the  look-out  for  you  ever 
since  that  night  at  your  aunt's  gate  ?  I  have  patrolled  your 
street  like  a  sentry  on  guard,  early  and  late.  Do  you  never  go 
out?" 

"  Hardly  ever.  Once  a  week  I  do  the  marketing — give  the 
orders,  that  is.  Sometimes  I  have  my  '  Sunday  out.'  1  express 
a  wish  to  go  to  church  ind  am  allowed  to  go.  Aunt  Dormer  is 
a  professed  heathen  hei self — another  good  turn  she  owes  thai 
false  and  faithless  papa  of  yours,  my  Fred." 


"Off,   WHISTLE,  AND    VLL   COME    TO    YE.n        209 

"What  church  do  you  patronize  Sundays,  pray?" 

"  Notre  Dame  principally,  for  the  sake  of  the  music." 

"  Shall  you  be  there  next  Sunday  ?" 

"  If  next  Sunday  is  fine,  and  Aunt  Phil's  temper  doesn't  turn 
to  gall  and  bitterness." 

"  When  do  you  go — morning  or  evening?" 

"  Morning." 

"  1  shall  attend  Notre  Dame  next  Sunday  morning,"  say3 
Mr.  Carew,  gravely.  "  Pending  next  Sunday,  cannot  you  man- 
age to  meet  me  somewhere,  Beauty.  I  have  a  million  things  to 
say  to  you.  I  proposed  to  relieve  myself  of  a  few  to-night,  but 
Mrs.  Fogarty — bless  her  ! — has  frustrated  all  that.  By-the-by, 
one  of  them  was — what  sort  of  a  parting  did  you  and  Sandy 
have  ?  Not  too  affectionate,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Mr.  McKelpin's  highly  respectable  name  is  Donald,  as  I 
think  I  have  informed  you  before.  For  our  parting — that  is  no 
concern  of  yours.  The  last  farewells  of  those  who  love  is  much 
too  sacred  a  subject  to  be  exposed  to  the  profane  levity  of  out 
siders." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Freddy,  in  a  quenched  tone,  and  the  depressed 
look  returns.  Miss  Hendrick  compassionately  comes  to  the 
rescue. 

"  You  said  there  were  a  million  things  you  had  to  say  to  me 
— this  is  only  one.  Proceed  with  the  rest,  and  quickly;  for  in 
the  distance  Mrs.  Fogarty  is  eying  you  as  a  vulture  its  prey, 
and  will  swoop  down  upon  you  in  three  minutes." 

"  I  want  to  see  you,  Cyrilla — I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously 
— seriously,  mind!"  says  Mr.  Carew,  "about  this  engagement 
with  McKelpin.  At  what  hour,  daily,  does  Miss  Dormer  take 
her  after-dinner  nap  ?  Old  ladies  always  do  take  after-dinner 
naps,  don't  they  ?" 

"  My  experience  of  old  ladies  is  extremely  limited,  I  am 
happy  to  say.  Miss  Dormer  goes  to  sleep  at  three  o'clock  every 
afternoon  with  the  regularity  of  clockwork " 

"  Then  what  is  to  hinder  your  stealing  out  every  afternoon  at 
three  o'clock  ?  "  cries  Freddy,  eagerly. 

—  and  wakes,"  pursues  Cyrilla,  "as  I  was  about  to  say 
when  you  interrupted  me,  on  an  average  every  five  minutes. 
She  looks  about  the  room,  and  if  I  am  not  visible  she  calls  for 
me.  The  instant  I  siole  out  to  meet  you,  that  instant  the  dear 
old  lady  would  awake." 

"  Still  let  us  try  it,"  goes  on  Freddy,  undaunted,  "  for  see 
you  I  must.  Look  here,  Beauty — every  afternoon  1  will  go  to 


2 10          "  OH,    WHISTLE,  AND  PLL    COME   TO    YE." 

your  house — wind  and  weather  permitting — and  I'll  give  you 
some  signal  to  apprise  you.  Let  me  see — ah  !  I'll  whistle  a 
tune — '  La  Ci  darem]  for  instance.  And  you  shall  come  to 
the  window  and  wave  your  handkerchief  if  there  is  a  chance  of 
your  getting  off.  If  to-morrow  is  fine " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Carevv  !"  exclaims  the  vivacious  tones  of  the  Pork 
gentleman's  widow,  "  we  are  making  up  a  card  table,  and  we 
lust  want  one.  Do  come  and  be  my  partner— you  will  be  for- 
tunate, I  am  sure,  and  I  am  so  unlucky  at  cards.  Miss  Hen- 
drick  will  excuse  you,  I  am  sure." 

Miss  Hendrick  bows  frigidly  and  turns  away.  And  before  he 
quite  realizes  it,  Mr.  Carew  is  captured  and  carried  off. 

"  I  am  so  unlucky  at  cards,"  gushes  the  widow,  "  and  I  do 
want  a  good  partner  so  much." 

The  last  thing  that  reaches  Miss  Hendrick's  disgusted  ears  is 
the  imbecility  Fred  is  murmuring  :  "  unlucky  at  cards — lucky 
in  love — the  inexpressible  pleasure  of  being  Mrs.  Fogarty's 
partner  even  for  an  hour,  etc.,  etc."  Then  a  brother  officer  of 
Carew's  approaches,  and  asks  her  to  waltz.  She  goes,  and  as 
the  gentleman  knows  what  he  is  about,  enjoys  the  dance  thor- 
oughly. 

She  sees  no  more  of  Mr.  Carew  that  evening,  but  she  does 
not  allow  it  to  spoil  her  pleasure.  She  frowns  a  little,  to  observe 
how  closely  Mrs.  Fogarty  keeps  him  pinned  to  her  side  ;  but 
all  the  same,  she  thoroughly  enjoys  this  small  reception  of  Mrs. 
Delamefe's.  The  last  thing  she  notices  as  she  flits  away  to  put 
on  her  things  and  go  home,  is  Fred  Carew  meandering  languidly 
through  a  square  dance  with  his  widow. 

Next  day  Fred  is  faithfully  at  his  post,  and  the  first  bar  of 
"La  Ci  Darem  la  Mario"  reaches  Cyrilla' s  ears  at  a  quarter 
past  three.  Miss  Dormer  is  asleep,  and  she  goes  silently 
out  and  disappears  with  her  lover  around  an  angle  of  the 
house. 

This  meeting  is  but  the  beginning  of  many.  At  each  inter- 
view Mr.  Carew  uses  all  his  eloquence,  employs  every  argument 
he  can  bring  to  bear  to  induce  Cyrilla  to  end  the  farce  she  is 
playing,  to  throw  over  the  Scotchman  and  engage  herself  to  him. 
Cyrilla  listens,  and  laughs  in  his  face. 

"  And  starve  with  you  in  a  garret,  like  a  pair  of  modern  Babes 
in  the  Wood  ?  No,  thank  you,  Freddy — I  like  you  very  well, 
but  I  don't  wish  to  commit  suicide  for  your  sake.  It's  pleasant 
to  meet  you  in  this  way— forbidden  fruit  is  always  sweetest,  and 
it  is  good  to  see  a  face  I  knew  in  the  old  blissful,  beggarly  vaga- 


"Off,   WHISTLE,  AND  TLL    COME    TO    YE.n         211 

Dond  days  ;  but  marry  you — poor  as  you  are  now  !  No  !  not 
while  I  keep  my  senses." 

About  the  middle  of  March,  Mrs.  Fogarty  gave  a  ball  at  the 
Fogarty  mansion  in  Shelbourne  Street,  which,  for  barbaric  splen- 
dor and  costliness,  was  long  the  talk  of  the  town.  Half  Mon- 
treal seemed  to  be  invited — among  them  the  rich  Miss  Dormer's 
heiress  and  niece — the  rich  Donald  McKelpin's  affianced  wife. 

Miss  Dormer's  niece  obtained  permission  to  go.  To  despise 
your  hostess  and  yet  enjoy  her  parties  is  no  uncommon  phase  of 
society.  Miss  Hendrick  put  on  the  "  strawberry-ice  "  silk,  pre- 
sented her  as  bridemaid's  dress  by  Sydney  Owenson — a  rich 
and  beautiful  garment,  stylishly  made  and  trimmed.  She  wore 
a  cluster  of  pink  roses  (sent  by  Freddy)  in  her  glossy  black 
braids,  and  a  set  of  pearls  loaned  her  by  Aunt  Phil  for  this 
occasion  only.  Her  bouquet  (sent  also  by  Freddy)  was  of 
pink  and  white  roses.  And  as  she  came  into  Mrs.  Fogarty 's 
rooms,  her  dark  head  held  high,  her  manner  so  eminently  dis- 
tinguished and  self-possessed,  she  looked  the  handsomest  and 
most  thoroughbred  woman  in  the  rooms. 

Mr.  Carew  was  there,  and  on  this  night  Mrs.  Fogarty's  atten- 
tions to  him  were  painfully  marked.  To  tell  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Fogarty  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  him.  She  had 
married  the  pork  man  for  money  ;  she  would  marry  Mr.  Carew 
for  love !  Also  for  his  handsome  face,  his  elegant  manners, 
his  scarlet  coat,  and  his  connection  with  the  British  peerage. 
His  grand  uncle  was  an  earl ;  more  than  one  life,  as  good  as  his 
own,  stood  between  him  and  the  succession  ;  but  these  lives 
might  be  removed,  and  she  might  write  her  name  Countess  of 
Dunraith  !  She  was  still  young — she  owned  to  four-and-twenty, 
and  the  record  of  the  family  Bible  no  one  knew  but  herself. 
She  was  very  rich,  and  half-a-dozen  men  this  very  winter  had 
asked  her  to  marry  them.  Mr.  Carew  was  poor  ;  his  admiration 
of  her  was  quite  patent  to — herself;  before  May  he  must  propose. 
She  would  accept  him,  marry  him,  and  take  him  for  a  honey- 
moon tour  around  the  world,  calling,  en  roufe,  at  Dunraith  Park  ! 

With  all  these  good  resolutions  in  her  mind,  she  steadfastly 
held  Fred  at  her  side  the  whole  night  long.  Men  laughed  and 
congratulated  him  ;  the  havoc  he  had  made  in  the  fair  Fogarty's 
affections  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  the  women,  as  a  rule. 
expressed  themselves  disgusted.  For  Miss  Hendrick,  with  her 
handsome  face,  betokening  only  tranquil  enjoyment,  she  danced 
the  long  night  through,  without  exchanging  a  do/en  words  with 
him. 


*I2          «OH,    WHISTLE,  AND  PLL   COME    TO    YE" 

Once,  indeed  he  broke  his  fetters,  and  rushed  to  her  side,  and 
implored  her  to  dance  with  him  ;  but  Miss  Hendrick,  in  a  voice 
thoroughly  iced,  told  him  she  was  engaged  for  every  dance  she 
meant  to  dance  until  she  left,  and  turned  her  white  shoulder 
pointedly  upon  him,  and  resumed  her  animated  flirtation  with 
Major  Riddell. 

But  once  at  home  a  few  hours  later,  she  tore  off  her  pink 
silk,  her  pearls  and  roses,  and  flung  them,  a  lustrous  heap,  in  a 
fine  fury,  across  the  room.  She  was  by  nature  intensely  jealous  j 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  quiet  monopoly  of  Fred  Carew  all  night  had  half- 
maddened  her.  She  did  not  mean  to  marry  him  herself ;  but  to 
give  him  up  to  that  woman — that  odious,  brainless,  giggling 
woman  !  No  !  She  would  ruin  her  every  prospect  in  life,  re- 
nounce Mr.  McKelpin  and  her  aunt's  fortune,  sooner  !  Then 
an  outbreak  of  vindictive  tears,  and  the  belle  of  Mrs.  Fogarty's 
ball  cried  herself  in  a  jealous  rage  to  sleep. 

Mrs.  Delamere,  still  Miss  Dormer's  only  visitor,  came  quite 
often,  and  helped  on  the  ending  of  the  drama. 

"  Really,  Cyrilla,  my  love,"  she  said,  laughingly,  more  than 
once,  "  I  think  we  will  have  fellow-passengers  by  the  Austrian,  in 
April.  I  am  as  sure  as  that  I  stand  here  Nelly  Fogarty  will  be 
our  traveling-companion." 

"  Alone  ?  "  Miss  Hendrick  asks. 

"Alone?"  laughs  Mrs.  Delamere.  "  Simple  child  !  have  you 
no  eyes  ?  She  means  to  marry  Fred  Carew,  and  take  him  with 
her.  Poor  Freddy — it  is  a  case  of  '  greatness  thrust,'  and  so  on. 
He  doesn't  like  it,  but  when  the  proper  time  comes  he  will  face 
his  doom  like  a  man  and  a  soldier." 

About  this  time  too,  the  short  letters,  the  signal  whistle  under 
the  windows,  were  given  up.  Mr.  Carew  was  evidently  getting 
tired  of  wooing  another  man's  future  wife.  Rumors  on  all  sides 
reached  the  girl's  ears  of  his  perpetual  presence  at  the  Hotel 
Fogarty.  The  blooming  widow  took  him  shopping  in  her  cunning 
little  blue  velvet  sleigh,  gave  dinner  parties,  none  of  which  he  ever 
missed,  went  to  church  with  him  Sundays,  and  let  him  carry 
her  ruby  velvet  and  gold  prayer-book  into  the  pew.  Widows 
have  been  dangerous  from  time  immemorial — what  was  a  poor 
little  fellow  like  Fred  Carew,  totally  unprotected,  to  do  when 
laid  siege  to  like  this  ?  "  Samivel,  bevare  of  the  vidders,"  said 
Mr.  Weller,  and  Mr.  Weller  understood  human  nature. 

The  first  week  of  April  Mrs.  Delamere  gave  a  farewell  re- 
union ;  Miss  Hendrick  was  bidden  and  had  obtained  leave  to  go, 

"But  mind,"  said  Miss  Dormer,  grimly,  "it  is  the  last  time 


"Off,  WHISTLE,  AND  I'LL   COME  TO    YE.n         213 

This  makes  three  in  two  months.  You  go  to  no  more  fandan- 
goes, Niece  Cyrilla." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  want  to,"  responded  Cyrilla,  wretchedly ; 
"  they  don't  afford  me  so  much  pleasure.  I  wish  Mr.  McKel- 
pin  was  back,  and  my  wedding  comfortably  over." 

Once  again,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Mr.  Carew  and  Mrs. 
Fogarty  were  present,  and  once  again,  also,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  close  juxtaposition.  But  presently  Mr.  Carew's 
order  of  release  came,  and  armed  with  a  white  satin  fan  he 
sauntered  over  and  took  a  seat  beside  her. 

"  Well,  Beauty,"  he  begins,  in  his  pleasant,  lazy  voice,  "  I 
have  been  waiting  to  come  over  for  the  last  half  hour  and  tell 
you  how  uncommonly  well  you  are  looking  to-night." 

"  And  your  keeper,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  wouldn't  let  you,  I  sup- 
pose," says  Miss  Hendrick,  scornfully.  She's  looking  uncom- 
monly well,  too,  isn't  she  ?  Have  you  told  her  so  ?" 

"  There  is  no  need,  Beauty — to  look  uncommonly  well  is 
Mrs.  Fogarty's  normal  state." 

"Yes,"  says  Miss  Hendrick,  her  handsome  short  upper  lip 
curling,  "  there's  nothing  common  about  her,  I  admit,  not  even 
common  sense  !  Might  one  inquire  whose  very  bridal-like  fan 
that  is  you  wield  so  gracefully,  Mr.  Carew  ?" 

"  This  ?  Nelly's,  of  course.  The  rooms  are  warm,  and  she 
kindly  lent  it  to  me.  I  must  go  back  and  return  it,  by-the-by." 

It  is  the  last  straw,  we  are  told,  that  breaks  the  camel's  back. 
Cyrilla  Hendrick's  eyes  flashed  and  her  lips  quivered. 

"  Nelly  !     It  has  come  to  that,  then  !" 

Mr.  Carew  raises  his  eyebrows. 

"  It  is  not  improper,  is  it  ?  We  are  excellent  friends,  and 
she  gives  me  the  privilege.  It's  a  pretty  name  and  easy  to 
say.  I  don't  cotton  to  Fogarty,  strange  to  relate — no  more 
does  she." 

"  Let  us  hope  she  will  like  her  new  name  better.  Has  she 
proposed  to  you  yet,  Mr.  Carew  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Cyrilla,  did  I  ever  ask  these  embarrassing  ques- 
tions about  McKelpin  ?  Apropos,  he  is  coming  back  in  a  few 
weeks,  Nelly  tells  me,  and  the  wedding  is  to  come  off — when, 
Beauty  ?  "  j 

This  is  too  much.  She  turns  upon  him,  passionate  tears 
in  her  black  eyes,  passionate  anger  in  her  voice,  and  exclaims ; 

"  Fred  Carew,  how  is  this  to  end?" 


£14  FAIRY  GOLD. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


FAIRY    GOLD. 


E  raises  his  eyebrows  and  looks  at  her,  placid  surprise 
only  in  his  face. 

"  How  is  this  to  end?"  she  repeats,  in  that  passion- 
ately angry  whisper. 

"  The  very  question  I  put  to  you,  if  you  remember,  that  night 
under  your  aunt's  chestnuts.  I  forget  what  you  answered.  By 
the  way  things  are  going  on  at  present,  I  think  it  will  end  in 
yo-T  leading  to  the  altar  the  manly  McKelpin  and  I  the  lovely 
Fogarty." 

"  Freddy,  do  you  mean  to  marry  that  odious  woman  ?  " 

"  Cyrilla,  do  you  mean  to  marry  that  odious  man  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  comparison,"  she  vehemently  cries.  "  I  cannot 
help  selling  myself — you  can.  If  she  were  nice,  and  not  a 
widow,  and  not  vulgar,  and  not " 

Miss  Hendrick  is  absolutely  growing  hysterical,  ami  Mr.  Ca- 
rew  looks  about  him  in  alarm. 

"  My  dear  child,  don't  let  us  talk  here,"  he  sayr,  hurriedly. 
"The  Fogarty,  confound  her,  is  watching  us  with  the  eyes  of 
Argus.  Come  into  the  next  room  ;  there  is  hardly  any  one 
there." 

He  leads  her  away — for  once  in  his  life  with  Cyrilla,  he  is 
master  of  the  situation,  and  for  once  in  his  life  means  to  remain 
so. 

The  room  adjoining  is  the  back  drawing-room,  where  the 
piano  stands,  forsaken  now.  One  or  two  card-tables,  also  for- 
saken, stand  in  one  or  two  recesses. 

They  are  more  fortunate  than  even  Fred  has  hoped.  The 
back  drawing-room  is  deserted. 

He  takes  his  stand  before  his  fair  friend,  leans  his  elbow  in  an 
easy  position  upon  the  piano,  and  prepares  to  have  it  out. 

"  Now,  then,  Beauty,"  he  begins,  in  a  tone  Fred  Carew  does 
not  often  use,  "  let  us  understand  one  another  once  and  for 
all.  This  sort  of  fooling  has  gone  on  between  you  and  me  long 
enough — it  shall  end  to-night.  How  is  it  to  end  ?  In  your  selling 
yourself  to  McKelpin  and  I  to  the  Widow  Fogarty?  It  is  foi 
you  to  decide." 


FAIRY  GOLD.  215 

"Fred,  tell  me,  could  you,  would  you,  under  any  circum- 
stances, marry  that  underbred,  over-dressed,  loud-voiced  wo- 
man ?  " 

"  She's  a  very  pretty  woman,  or  was  fifteen  years  ago,"  responds 
MY.  Carew,  "and  worth  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Hei 
taste  in  dress  and  laughter,  I  could  tone  down.  Now,  Mc'Kel- 
pin  at  no  period  of  his  career  could  have  laid  claim  to  pretti- 
ness,  and  I  don't  think  he  is  worth  a  farthing  more.  Of  course, 
there  is  also  your  aunt's  fortune  in  the  scale.  Still  money  is 
not  everything  in  this  world;  almost  everything,  I  adir.it,  but 
not  quite.  If  you  set  me  the  example,  'Rilla,  you  must,  not  De 
surprised  at  anything  I  may  do." 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question,"  she  angrily  says. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  marry  Mrs.  Fogarty  ?  " 

"  What  difference  can  it  make  to  you  when  you  are  Mrs. 
McKelpin  whether  I  marry  her  or  not  ?  " 

What,  indeed  !  And  yet  Cyrilla  feels  that  it  does.  She 
could  marry  her  Scotchman  and  support  life  apart  from  Fred,  if 
she  could  only  feel  sure  Fred  would  live  and  die  single  for  her 
sake.  But  to  give  him  up  to  another  woman ;  that  woman  a 
widow,  and  such  a  widow — no,  that  way  madness  lay. 

'"Rilla,"  he  says,  and  he  leans  forward  and  takes  both  her 
hands  in  his,  "  you  know  you  can  never  marry  any  man  in  the 
world  but  me — I  who  was  in  love  with  you  in  pinafores  !  Make 
an  end  of  this  nonsense,  and  marry  me  at  once.  We  won't 
starve  ;  there's  a  special  providence  that  watches  over " 

"  Fools  !  "  interrupts  Miss  Hendrick,  bitterly.  "Yes,  I  know." 

"  Lovers,  I  was  about  to  say,"  pursues  Fred,  in  his  pleasant 
way.  "  We'll  be  happy — you  know  thai,  Beauty.  We  suit 
each  other  as  no  two  ever  did  before.  Say  you'll  marry  me  on 
the  quiet  next  week,  and  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  I'll  cut 
Nelly  dead  from  thenceforth  forever." 

She  turns  upon  him,  a  blaze  of  fury  in  her  black  eyes- 


"  Nelly  !  "  she  cries.     "  If  you  ever  call  her  Nelly  again- 


"Very  well,  I  won't,"  responds  Mr.  Carew,  soothingly  ;  "I'll 
call  her  nothing  at  all ;  oh,  no,  we  never  mention  her,  from  the 
hour  you  promise.  If  you  refuse "  he  darkly  pauses. 

"Well?"  petulantly,  but  not  meeting  the  pleading  eyes,  "if 
I  refuse  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  Mrs.  Fogarty  to-morrow  morning,  I  swear  it, 
'Rilla ;  and  the  wedding  shall  come  off  a  week  before  yours." 

«'  i'rcd  !  "  with  a  gasp,  "you — you  don't  mean  that?" 

*'  I  never  meant  anything  so  much  in  my  life,  Beauty." 


«l6  FAIRY  GOLD. 

"  But  to  marry  you  in  secret — to  ruin  all  my  prospects  foi 
life — that  I  have  worked  so  hard  for,  too  !  Oh,  I  cannot  I"  she 
cries,  distractedly. 

"  There  will  be  no  ruin  in  the  case.  At  present  I  have  my 
pay,  and  that  will  suffice  for  us  in  a  quiet  way " 

"Ah,  very  quiet  !  "  interpolates  Miss  Hendrick,  with  scorn. 

"  In  a  quiet  way,"  proceeds  Fred.  "Then  1  shall  write  to 
my  Uncle  Dunraith,  he's  an  uncommonly  game  old  bird  in  money 
matters;  and  if  Miss  Dormer  finds  us  out  before  she  dies,  why 
she'll  come  around.  Its  a  rule  of  nature,  that  parents  and  guard- 
ians always  do  come  round.  But  my  own  conviction  is,  that 
Aunt  Dormer  will  die  comfortably  before  finding  us  out,  and 
leave  you  her  money,  and  virtue  will  be  its  own  reward  in 
the  end." 

She  stands  before  him,  a  struggle  going  on,  he  can  see,  her 
chest  heaving.  His  eloquence  is  not  the  cause,  she  is  not  list- 
ening to  a  word  of  it  all ;  she  is  simply  thinking,  "  If  I  do  not 
marry  him  Mrs.  Fogarty  will." 

"Mrs.  Delamere  will  be  our  aider  and  abettor,"  goes  on  the 
voice  of  the  tempter,  "so  will  the  colonel.  The  chaplain  of  the 

regiment  will  marry  us,  and  after  that Ah  !  well,  'Rilla,  love, 

after  that  there  will  be  no  more  Nellys  nor  Donalds  to  trouble 
our  peace.  We  will  belong  to  each  other — as  we  do,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  now — to  the  end  of  our  lives.  Beauty,  say 
yes ! " 

But  she  cannot — not  even  with  Fred's  flushed,  handsome 
pleading  face  so  close  to  her  own. 

"  I  cannot  !  "  she  cries  out  in  desperation  ;  "  at  least  not  now. 
Give  me  until  to-morrow,  and  I  will  decide." 

"  You  are  sure — to-morrow  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  I  am  sure — to-morrow.  Come  at  the  usual  hour,  give  the 
usual  signal,  and  if  it  be  possible  I  will  steal  out  and  meet 
you.  But  mind,  don't  hope  too  much — the  answer  may  not  be 
yes." 

He  smiles. 

"  Would  you  really  throw  me  into  the  arms  of  Nelly  Fogarty  ?  " 
he  asks,  and  as  he  utters  the  name  a  sound  startles  them.  Both 
look  up,  and  see  Mrs.  Fogarty's  white,  angry  face  looking  at 
them  through  the  half-closed  folding  doors. 

He  drops  her  hands  and  they  start  apart. 

"  The  devil  ! "  exclaims  Fred  Carew. 

The  next  moment  he  is  alone — Cyrilla  has  walked  straight  over 
to  the  folding  doors,  but  Mrs.  Fogarty  has  fled.  She  is  talking; 


FAIRY  GOLD.  21J 

to  Colonel  Delamere  when  Miss  Hendrick  passes  through  the 
other  room,  and  keeps  her  back  turned  toward  her. 

Can  she  have  heard  ?  the  girl  wonders.  No,  that  is  impossi- 
ble. She  has  not  heard,  but  she  has  seen  quite  enough  to  know 
that  Fred  Carew  will  never  be  her  husband. 

For  Fred  himself,  he  lingers  a  moment,  that  well-satisfied  smile 
still  on  his  lips. 

"  The  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost,"  he  murmurs.  "  I  think 
I  may  look  out  for  a  special  license  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row." 

******* 

The  fifteenth  of  April  was  the  day  appointed  for  the  depar- 
ture of  the  Delameres  from  Canada.  Very  early  on  the  morning 
of  the  fourteenth  a  little  party  assembled  in  Mrs.  Delamere' s 
drawing-room,  on  matrimonial  business*intent — the  chaplain  of 

the th,  Frederic  Carew,  Cyrilla  Hendrick,  the  Colonel  and 

his  wife.  With  locked  doors  and  closed  blinds,  a  ceremony  was 
performed  that  required  but  a  very  short  time.  At  its  close  the 
chaplain  and  Mr.  Carew  stayed  to  breakfast,  and  Cyrilla  return- 
ed to  Miss  Dormer's  house  on  foot — Fred  Carew's  wife. 

It  would  have  been  a  curious  and  rather  cynical  study  to  have 
analyzed  the  different  feelings  actuating  the  different  people  in 
the  little  bridal  group.  Fat  Mrs.  Delamere,  with  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  a  pensive  simper  on  her  fair  and  forty  face, 
felt  she  was  living  a  page  out  of  one  of  her  favorite  romances. 
She  had  plaintive,  sentimental  theories  about  "  two  souls  with 
but  a  single  thought,  two  hearts,"  etc.  The  Colonel,  with  a  jolly 
smile  on  his  jovial  face,  gives  away  the  bride,  feeling  that  she 
is  an  uncommonly  pretty  girl,  that  he  would  not  mind  being  in 
Carew's  place  himself,  and  that  it  is  a  capital  joke  to  help  out- 
wit the  two  skinflints,  McKelpin  and  Phillis  Dormer.  The 
chaplain  is  a  dark  and  saturnine  gentleman,  of  a  bilious  habit, 
about  as  social  and  conversable  as  an  oyster,  who  keeps  secrets 
so  well  that  he  mostly  forgets  them  himself.  Cyrilla' s  principal 
emotion  as  Fred  slips  the  wedding  ring  on  her  finger  is,  that  he 
can  never,  never  flirt  with  that  detestable  Nelly  Fogarty  again. 
For  the  bridegroom,  his  are  the  best  and  honestest,  and  simplest 
feelings  of  all.  True  Love  shines  in  his  blue  eyes  as  they  look 
in  his  bride's  face,  and. he  is  recording  a  vow  in  his  inmost  heart 
xhat  Cyrilla  shall  never  repent  this  step  she  has  taken  for  his 
Sike.  - 

****  «  *  *  « 

*'  Aunt  Dormer,"  says  Cyrilla,  coming  into  her  aunt's  room 
10 


2l8  FAIRY  GCLD. 

with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  "  here  is  a  letter  from  Sidney 
Owenson.  See  what  she  incloses — a  through  ticket  for  next 
week  to  take  me  to  New  York.  She  and  her  mother  sail  for 
Europe  on  the  tenth  of  May,  and  she  begs  I  will  spend  a  week 
with  her  before  she  sails.  We  may  never  meet  again,  she  says, 
and  we  have  been  such  good  friends,  aunt.  May  I  go  ?  " 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  April  ;  but  Miss  Dormer, 
in  her  stuffy  room,  sits  huddled  and  shivering  over  a  glowing 
coal  fire.  She  lifts  up  her  fretful,  sour  old  face,  all  pinched  and 
drawn,  with  its  customary  growl. 

"Always  gadding,  gadding  !  never  done  !  I  thought  when 
that  Delamere  woman  went,  a  fortnight  ago,  there  would  be  an 
end  of  it,  and  here  you  want  to  begin  again." 

"  Have  I  been  anywhere  since  Mrs.  Delamere  did  go,  aunt  ?  " 

"  And  now  you  want  to  be  off  to  New  York,  the  wickedest 
city  in  the  world,  and  gad  about  there.  What  do  you  suppose 
Mr.  McKelpin  will  say  when  he  returns  in  June  ?  " 

There  was  a  dangerous  answer  on  the  tip  of  Cyrilla's  tongue, 
a  dangerous  flash  in  her  eye  at  the  question,  but  there  was  too 
much  at  stake  for  her  to  let  temper  get  the  better  of  her  now. 

"  I'm  not  Mrs.  McKelpin  yet,  Aunt  Phil.  I  belong  to  you, 
not  to  him.  And  it  is  the  last,  the  very  last  favor  I  will  ask. 
If  Sydney  had  not  sent  the  ticket  too " 

"I  suppose  she  thought  I  was  too  poor  to  pay  for  you," 
snarled  Miss  Dormer.  "  WTell,  I  am  too  poor.  I  have  no 
money  to  throw  away,  and  never  shall.  To  leave  me,  too,  in 
my  present  wretched  state,  it  is  like  your  gratitude,  after  all  I 
have  done  for  you,  Niece  Cyrilla  !  " 

"  Then  I  am  to  write  to  Miss  Owenson,  return  her  ticket, 
and  tell  her  you  will  not  let  me  go  ?  " 

"  And  have  her  set  me  down  as  a  monster,  a  tyrant,  and  your 
self  a  victim  !  You  would  like  that,  would  you  not  ?  No,  you 
shall  go  to  New  York,  and  you  shall  see  Dr.  S for  me,  ex- 
plain my  case  to  him,  and  bring  me  back  his  medicines.  I 
suppose  your  rich  friend  will  give  you  a  return  ticket,  since  she 
seems  to  have  more  money  than  she  knows  what  to  do  with." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  she  will,  aunt.  As  you  say,  it  will  be  an 
excellent  opportunity  to  lay  your  case  before  the  famous  Dr. 

S .    I  have  no  doubt  his  prescriptions  will  add  twenty  years 

to  youi  life.  Let  me  see.  To-morrow  is  the  first  of  May.  This 
ticket  is  for  the  fourth.  Of  course  I  can  easily  be  ready  to  go 
on  the  fourth." 

So  it  was  arranged.     That  there  was  any  duplicity  about  Uie 


FAIRY  GOLD.  ^19 

letter  or  the  t'cket,  that  Fred  Carew  had  obtained  a  fortnight's 
leave — sick  leave  ! — how  was  Miss  Dormer  in  her  stifling  prison 
to  know  ? 

Cyrilla  made  her  preparations — not  many — with  so  radiant  a 
face  that  old  Joanna  lifted  her  deaf  head  from  the  work,  and  de- 
clared it  did  her  old  eyes  good  only  to  look  at  her.  There  was 
new  light,  new  life  in  her  dark  face  that  turned  the  grave  beauty 
to  absolute  loveliness.  She  sang  to  herself  as  she  moved 
through  the  gruesome  rooms,  quite  a  new  sound  in  Miss  Dor- 
mer's dreary  home.  "  Let  us  crown  ourselves  with  roses  before 
they  fade,"  says  a  Sybaritish  old  French  proverb ;  her  roses  had 
bloomed,  and  she  would  gather  them  at  their  brightest.  She 
was  happy  to-day.  She  would  not  look  forward  to  to-morrow  ; 
her  day  would  last  until  the  tenth  of  the  month.  If  the  night 
and  the  darkness  came  after,  so  much  the  more  need  to  enjoy 
the  sunshine  of  the  present. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  Cyrilla  started  on  her 
journey  for  New  York.  It  was  a  veritable  May  day,  even  in 
Canada,  of  soft  winds  and  melting  sunlight.  She  lay  back  in  her 
seat,  and  looked  with  radiantly  dark  eyes  at  the  flying  prospect. 
How  good  a  holiday  was  !  She  had  been  on  the  treadmill  so 
long — such  a  treadmill!  that  liberty  alone  seemed  a  foretaste  of 
heaven.  The  girl  was  a  gypsy  by  nature.  In  the  Cedar  wood 
palaces  of  her  soul's  desire  she  would  have  had  backward  yearn- 
ings for  the  canvas  tents  and  fetterless  freedom  of  the  nomad 
tribes.  She  was  free  now — one,  two,  three — nine  whole  days 
she  was  to  be  happy.  Nine  whole  days  only.  Ah,  well !  people 
have  gone  through  life  without  even  nine  hours  of  perfect  bliss. 

The  day  wore  on — noon — afternoon — evening — night.  She 
did  not  feel  even  a  touch  of  weariness,  her  vitality  was  perfect. 
Other  people  around  her  slept ;  her  eyes  were  like  dusk  stars. 
Nine  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  eleven  o'clock,  and  "Boston"  shouts 
the  conductor,  putting  in  his  head.  Her  journey  for  the  pres 
ent  is  at  an  end. 

There  were  not  many  people  nor  many  hacks  at  the  depdt  at 
that  hour,  but  one  of  the  few  persons  in  waiting  made  his  way 
instantly  in.  While  Cyrilla  was  gathering  her  belongings  to- 
gether, some  one  came  hastily  to  her  side,  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her. 

"My  wife!" 

Her  answer  is  a  smile  that  repays  Fred  Carew  for  tiresome 
hours  of  waiting.  He  gathers  up  shawl,  bag  and  book,  draws 
her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  leads  her  away  tc  a  hack. 


220  FAIRY  GOLD. 

"  Tremont,"  he  calls,  and  they  go  rattling  over  the  stony 
streets  of  Boston. 

"And  this  is  the  Hub  of  the  Universe,"  says  Cyrilla,  laughing 
"  It  has  an  English  look.  We  must  stay  here  to-rnorrow  and  ex- 
plore it,  Freddy." 

"  Certainly,  Cyrilla.  Ah !  if  Aunt  Dormer  could  only  see 
you  now  ! " 

But  Aunt  Dormer,  uneasily  asleep  at  home,  dreams  not  of 
such  horrors.  That  she  has  been  outwitted,  defied  ;  that  her 
niece  has  secretly  married  the  son  of  her  arch-enemy — that  the 
trip  to  New  York  is  her  honeymoon  trip — it  would  be  difficult 
indeed  to  convince  Aunt  Dormer  of  this. 

They  spend  the  next  day  in  Boston  very  agreeably — take  the 
evening  boat  for  New  York,  and  wake  up  next  morning  in  the 
Empire  City.  They  drive  to  an  up-town  hotel,  breakfast,  and 
then  start  out  for  their  first  day's  sight-seeing. 

"  I  shall  put  off  going  to  see  Sydney  until  the  very  last  day," 
says  Mrs.  Carew  to  Mr.  Carew.  "  She  will  ask  questions,  and 
I  cannot  tell  Sydney  lies.  With  those  innocent,  crystal-clear 
eyes  of  hers  on  one's  face,  one  hates  oneself  for  being  false.  It 
is  odious  enough  to  be  obliged  to  tell  them  to  Aunt  Dormer.  | 

"  Still,  for  a  novice,  my  love,  I  am  quite  sure  you  do  it  re- 
markably well,"  murmurs  the  adoring  husband,  "  as  you  do 
everything."  , 

All  her  after-life  Cyrilla  looked  back  with  a  sigh  of  envious 
regret  to  that  week.  She  was  so  free,  so  happy,  and  with  Fred. 
Everything  was  new  and  delightful — the  streets,  the  stores,  the 
parks,  the  people,  the  theatres — everything.  Other  days  of 
delight  the  future  might  bring,  but  never  again  any  like  these. 
The  bloom  would  be  brushed  off  life's  peach,  the  first  freshness 
and  zest  gone,  she  could  never  enjoy  again  as  she  enjoyed  now. 
Ruin  and  disaster  might  be  in  store  for  her  when  Donald  Me 
Kelpin  came  home — she  could  not  tell — her  gold  might  be 
fairy  gold,  after  all,  that  would  turn  to  slate  stones  in  her  grasp, 
but  oh  !  how  brightly  it  shone.  What  a  good  and  satisfying 
thing  life  could  be  made  to  two  people  who  were  fond  of  each 
other  and — had  plenty  of  money  ! 

The  tenth  of  May,  as  has  been  said,  was  the  day  appointed 
for  Mrs.  and  Miss  Owenson's  departure.  On  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  preceding.  Cyrilla  presented  herself  at  the  door  of  a 
stately  brown  front  on  Madison  Avenue,  with  the  legend  "  MAC- 
GREGOR  "  on  a  silver  plate. 

"  You  will  wait  for  me  in  Madison  Square,  Freddy,"  had  said 


FAIRY  GOLD.  221 

Freddy's  wife.  "  It  will  never  do  to  shock  little  Syd  by  telling 
her  the  horrid  truth,  so  you  must  not  be  seen." 

Mr.  Carew,  in  the  present  stage  of  his  existence,  lived  but  to 
obey. 

Cyrilla  rang,  and  the  ring  was  answered  by  an  ebony  young 
man  in  livery. 

"  Was  Miss  Owenson  at  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Owenson  was  at  home,"  made  answer  the  ebony 
young  man,  throwing  open  a  door  and  ushering  the  visitor  into 
a  perfumed  and  elegant  reception  room.  "  What  name  shall 
he  say  ?  " 

"  1  will  not  send  my  card,"  the  lady  answers ;  "  tell  her  an 
old  friend." 

"These  Macgregors  must  be  very  rich  people,"  thought 
Cyrilla,  running  her  eyes  critically  over  the  costly  furnishing 
and  ornaments  of  the  room  ;  "  people  of  refinement  and  thor- 
ough good  taste  as  well.  Ah  !  Sydney's  lines  seem  to  fall  in 
pleasant  places." 

The  door  opened  as  she  thought  it,  and  Sydney  came  in. 
Cyrilla  arose.  Was  it  Sydney — rose  cheeked,  laughing  Sydney, 
this  pale,  frail  girl  in  deepest  crapes  and  sables,  with  that  sadly 
thoughtful  face  ? 

"  Sydney  !  " 

"Cyrilla!" 

It  is  a  cry  of  very  delight,  and  Sydney  Owenson  clasps  the 
friend  she  loves  in  her  arms,  and  kisses  her  in  a  rapture  again 
and  again. 

"  My  darling  !  what  a  surprise  !  "  she  exclaims.  "  I  never 
thought  of  seeing  you.  Johnson  said  an  old  friend,  and  de- 
scribed you  in  glowing  terms,  but  still  I  never  thought  of  you. 
Dear  old  Cy  !  how  good  of  you  to  come  before  1  left !  When 
did  you  come  ? — to-day  ?  " 

"  No — not  to-day,"  Cyrilla  answers,  with  a  smile.  "  Sidney, 
child,  how  thin  and  pale  you  have  grown.  Have  you  been 
ill  ?  " 

"  No,  not  ill  exactly,  and  yet  not  well.  I  suppose  I  got  too 
great  a  shock — it  was  all  so  dreadful,  and  I  was  so  little  used 
to  trouble.  I  do  not  think  that  1  can  ever  feel  again  as  I  used 
— oh  !  how  long  ago  it  seems." 

"  Hut  you  will,  dear  ;  we  all  think  like  that  in  trouble.  And 
Bertie — no  news  of  him  has  ever  transpired  ?  " 

"None — none — none!  Oh!  Cyrilla,  it  breaks  my  heart  1 
To  think  of  him  hurried  into  eternity  without  a  moment's  warn. 


222  FAIRY  GOLD. 

ing,  full  of  life  and  hope,  unprepared  for  death.  If  we  could 
even  have  found  his  body,  if  we  could  have  given  him  Chris- 
tian burial !  But  all  is  mystery ;  not  even  a  trace  of  his  body 
can  be  found." 

Her  voic~  breaks  and  she  turns  away  ;  Cyrilla  sits  silent. 
With  this  last  sorrow  she  cannot  sympathize.  The  body  is  not 
found,  of  course,  because  there  is  no  body  to  be  found.  Bertie 
Vaughan  carries  that  about  with  him,  and  cares  for  it  as  .tenderly 
as  ever,  no  doubt. 

"  But  you  don't  tell  me  how  you  came  to  be  in  New  York," 
Sydney  says,  turning  brightly  around.  "  Is  it  not  something 
wonderful  for  Miss  Dormer  to  let  you  out  of  her  sight  ?  " 

"Wonderful  indeed;  but  you  know,  Syd,  wonders  never 
cease.  Here  I  am  ;  and,  my  dear  child,  I  want  to  beg  as  a 
favor  that  you  will  ask  me  nothing  about  how  or  why  I  came. 
Aunt  Dormer  knows  I  am  here ;  the  rest  is  a  secret.  I  am 
stopping  at  a  hotel,  and  leave  for  Montreal  to-morrow.  Oh  ! 
how  I  hate,  how  I  abhor,  how  I  detest  and  dread  the  very 
thought  of  going  back  !  " 

Sydney  sat  gazing  at  her,  silent,  wondering,  but  unsuspecting. 
Cyrilla  always  was  a  girl  of  mysteries  and  secrets  ;  that  she 
was  so  still  did  not  much  surprise  Miss  Owenson. 

"  But  now  that  you  are  here  you  will  stay  and  dine  with  me 
of  course,"  she  says.  "  Aunt  Macgregor  and  my  cousin  Katy 
will  be  charmed  to  meet  you.  They  have  heard  of  you  so  much 
from  mamma  and  me.  Poor  mamma  is  never  done  singing 
your  praises  ;  how  good,  how  tender,  how  sympathetic  you  are. 
She  is  out  just  now  shopping,  but  will  be  back  in  an  hour. 
Come  up  to  my  room  and  take  off  your  things." 

"  No,  Sydney.  I  can't  stay.  Don't  be  hurt,  dear,  but  my 
time  is  limited.  I  will  remain  half  an  hour  longer,  and  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  all  about  your  winter  here  and  your  plans  for 
over  the  ocean." 

They  sit  and  chat,  and  the  moments  fly.  Cyrilla  half  wishes 
she  could  stay  to  dinner,  so  interested  does  she  become  in  it  all, 
but  she  thinks  mercifully  of  Fred,  wandering  aimlessly  through 
the  verdant  groves  of  Madison  Square,  among  the  nurse-maids 
and  perambulators,  and  arises  at  last  and  goes. 

"You  will  not  forget  me,  Sydney.  You  will  write  often  and 
tell  me  ill  about  your  wanderings  ?  "  is  her  last  injunction. 

Sydney  promises  ;  there  is  a  last  embrace  and  they  part,  to 
meet  again  neither  knows  when. 

Cyrilla  rejoins  her  husband.     They  hail  a  passing  omnibus  to 


FAIRY  GOLD.  22 J 

return  to  the  hotel.  Four  people  in  the  stage,  three  gentlemen 
and  a  lady,  when  they  enter.  This  Cyrilla  caielessly  sees,  but 
she  does  not  glance  at  any  of  them  specially.  She  generally 
rinds  men's  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  a  stare  of  broad  admiration 
which,  thouch  it  does  not  disconcert  her  at  all,  she  does  not  care 
to  meet.  A~  handsome  girl  in  a  Broadway  stage  is  no  such  rara 
ac'is;  still  Mrs.  Frederick  Carew  comes  in  for  even  more  than  the 
customary  amount  of  staring.  She  sits  supremely  unconscious 
of  «t  now,  Razing  out  of  the  window,  while  Freddy  passes  up  their 
fare  and  rrsumes  his  seat  by  her  side. 

"Look — not  for  an  instant  yet — at  the  woman  sitting  op- 
posite," he  says  in  French,  in  a  guarded  tone. 

She  is  surprised,  but  she  waits  the  moment  and  then  glances 
across.  The  woman,  a  thin,  faded,  youngish  woman,  sits  directly 
opposite,  her  eyes  fixed  full  upon  Cyrilla,  a  glare  of  deadly  hatred 
in  their  pale  depths.  It  is — Mary  Jane  Jones  ! 

For  a  moment  they  transfix  each  other,  mutual  recognition 
in  their  eyes.  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  Cyrilla  that  her  creamy 
complexion  never  changes  color.  Then  she  looks  straight  over 
Miss  Jones'  head  out  at  the  crowds  pouring  up  and  down  Broad- 
way. 

The  ride  to  the  hotel  is  a  short  one.  Mr.  Carew  pulls  the 
check  string,  and  they  get  out.  Miss  Jones  waits  until  another 
block  is  passed,  evidently  thinking  deeply ;  then  she,  too,  alights, 
and  walks  back  to  the  hotel.  At  the  door  of  the  reading-room 
she  passes  Fred  Carew.  She  takes  no  notice,  she  goes  on  into 
the  office  and  up  to  the  desk,  and  accosts  the  official  enthroned 
there. 

"  Are  there  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew  stopping  here  ?  "  she  in- 
quires. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Mr.  Carew's  at  the  door  there,"  answers  the 
official,  with  a  nod,  and  the  admirable  brevity  of  his  class. 

"They  are  from  Montreal?" 

"  From  Montreal." 

"  How  long  have  they  been  here  ?  " 

Official  refers  to  big  book,  looking  bored. 

"Five  days." 

"Thank  you." 

With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  Miss  Jones  quits  the  »ffice.  Fred 
Carew  is  still  standing  where  he  stood  when  she  entered,  as  she 
passes  out  She  pauses  before  him,  with  that  smile — as  unpleas- 
ant a  smile  as  can  well  be  imagined — and  looks  up  in  his  face. 

**  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Carew?"  she  says. 


224  VENDE  TTA  1 

Mr.  Carew  puts  up  his  eye-glass,  and  looks  at  hei  in  a  be- 
wildered way. 

"  Eh  ?  I  beg  your  pardon,  you  know,"  drawls  Freddy  ;  "  but 
have  I  ever  had  the  pleasure  of — er — seeing  you  before, 
madam  ?  " 

Miss  Jones  laughs. 

"  You  do  it  very  well,"  she  answers  ;  "  almost  as  well  as  she 
could  herself.  Give  my  best  respects  to  Mrs.  Carew — I  don't 
think  she  knew  me  in  the  stage.  I  hope  her  aunt  is  in  good 
health,  and  is  quite  reconciled  to  the  match.  Good-day  to 
you,  Mr.  Carew." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

VENDETTA  ! 

|R.AW  that  curtain,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and  don't  sit  moon- 
ing there,  out  of  nothing.  You  might  know  all  that 
glare  of  light  would  hurt  my  eyes,  if  you  ever  thought 
of  anybody  but  yourself." 

The  croaking,  rasping  old  voice  stops.  With  a  tired  sigh, 
Cyrilla  rises  and  does  as  she  is  told. 

"  Will  that  do,  Aunt  Phil?" 

There  is  no  reply  for  a  moment,  then  a  dull,  prolonged  groan 
of  misery  from  the  old  woman  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh  !  my  back.  Oh  !  my  side.  Oh  !  this  dreadful,  racking 
pain.  Niece  Cyrilla,  what  are  you  sitting  there  like  a  stone 
for  ?  You  have  no  more  feeling  than  a  stone.  Get  up  and  do 
something  for  me." 

The  girl  comes  to  the  bedside,  and  looks  pitifully  down  at  the 
drawn,  distorted  face  and  writhing  form. 

"  Aunt  Dormer,  what  shall  I  do  for  you  ?  I  do  feel  for  you, 
indeed.  Shall  I  fetch  your  hot  plates  ?  " 

Once  again  there  is  no  reply.  In  the  midst  of  her  querulous 
cry,  Miss  Dormer  has  fallen  into  a  fitful  doxe.  Cyrilla  goes  softly 
Dack  to  her  place ;  but  she  has  hardly  resumed  her  seat,  when 
the  harsh,  complaining  voice  breaks  out  again 

"  Isn't  it  time  for  my  spoonful  of  morphine  yet  ?      You  never 


VENDETTA  t  22$ 

know  or  care  whether  it  is  time  for  me  to  get  my  medicine  or 
not.  I  wish  you  had  this  pain  in  your  side  and  back,  and  all 
over  your  body,  as  I  have  ;  perhaps  you  would  be  as  glad  as  I 
am  to  get  morphine  Look  at  the  clock,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and 
don't  sit  gaping  out  ot  that  window  like  a  fool." 

For  the  third  time  the  girl  arises,  almost  like  an  automaton  ; 
it  is  only  a  specimen  of  what  goes  on  all  day  now.  Passing 
her  hand  wearily  across  her  forehead,  she  looks  at  the  clock ; 
the  morphine  hour  has  not  arrived,  but  she  administers  the  drug 
in  a  tiny  crystal  cup — this,  at  least,  will  quiet  her  tyrant  for  the 
next  hour. 

The  scene  is  still  Miss  Dormer's  room,  but  the  arm-chair  has 
been  exchanged  for  a  bed — Miss  Phillis  Dormer  will  never  sit 
in  arm-chair  or  other  chair  again.  It  is  almost  the  close  of 
May — a  soft  opal-tinted,  exquisite  May  evening,  but  still  a  coal 
fire  burns  on  the  hearth,  the  windows  are  sealed,  the  doors  are 
tightly  closed  by  order  of  the  invalid,  the  foul  mephitic  air  is  in 
itself  sufficient  to  kill  any  one.  Cyrilla  has  been  breathing  it 
since  seven  o'clock  this  morning ;  she  has  been  breathing  it  for 
many  weary  days  past.  A  fortnight  ago  Miss  Dormer's  incur- 
able disease  made  one  rapid  stride  forward,  and  brought  Miss 
Dormer  to  the  door  of  death.  At  death's  door  she  lies  now. 
The  dread  and  gloomy  portal  that  will  open  for  all  flesh  one  day 
may  open  for  her  any  moment,  now.  Sh.  Knows  it  too,  only 
even  to  her  own  soul,  she  refuses  vehemently,  fiercely,  to 
believe.  It  is  but  a  temporary  illness — she  will  recover — she 
must  recover — her  affairs  are  not  arranged,  her  will  is  not  made, 
she  cannot  make  it  in  all  this  pain  and  misery — she  has  not  time 
to  die.  When  she  is  better  she  will  make  it,  she  will  send  for  a 
clergyman,  she  will  read  her  Bible,  she — she  will  try  and  pre- 
pare for  death.  She  is  not  so  very  old,  only  fifty-five  ;  why, 
many  men  and  women,  not  as  strong  as  she  is,  live  to  seventy, 
eighty,  ninety  !  This  is  not  death,  she  is  only  a  little  worse  ;  next 
week,  or  week  after,  she  will  be  better,  and  then — then  she 
will  amend  her  life  and  get  ready  to  die. 

So  she  puts  the  thought  fiercely  from  her,  and  no  one  dares 
tell  her  the  truth.  She  has  lived  a  most  godless  and  unholy  life, 
at  wrath  with  all  the  world,  for  the  wrong  of  one  man  ;  she  will 
die  an  impenitent  and  most  despairing  death.  Oh,  vanitas  vani- 
tatcm  !  What  preacher  that  ever  preached  can  speak  to  the 
heart  as  doe;  the  death-bed  of  a  hoary  sinner. 

She  takes  her  anodyne,  falls  back  upon  her  pillow  and  sinks 
at  once  into  dull  stupor.     Then,  still  with  that  jaded,  worn  face, 
10* 


VENDETTA! 

Cyrilla  gets  up,  leaves  the  room,  descends  the  stairs  and  stands 
out  in  the  lovely  freshness  of  the  sweet  spring  night. 

The  air  is  full  of  balm,  of  perfume,  of  balsamic  odors  ;  it  is 
warm  and  windless  as  June — the  June  that  will  be  here  next  week 
that  is  to  bring  Donald  McKelpin  to  claim  his  bride.  Up  in  the 
blue  sky  shining  stars  look  down ;  a  faint,  silver  baby  moon  is 
away  yonder  over  her  left  shoulder,  half-lost  in  the  primrose  lus- 
tre of  the  sky.  Away  in  Montreal  half-a-dozen  bells  clash  mu- 
sically out,  calling  the  good  French  Canadians  to  the  devotion 
of  "  The  Month  of  May."  It  is  all  sweetness,  and  peace,  and 
beauty,  and  the  white,  fagged  look  gradually  leaves  the  girl's 
face,  and  her  dark  melancholy  eyes  lose  a  little  of  their  sombre 
expression.  But  still  she  is  very  grave,  and — where  has  her 
youth  gone  to  ?  she  looks  ten  years  older  than  three  weeks 
ago. 

Will  Aunt  Dormer  die  without  making  her  will  ?  That  is  the 
thought  that  haunts  her  by  night  and  by  day,  that  robs  her  of 
appetite  and  sleep,  that  makes  her  bear  imprisonment  in  that 
most  miserable  sick-room,  that  makes  her  endure  the  fierce 
impatience,  the  ceaseless  complainings,  of  the  sick  woman,  with 
a  patience  that  never  fails.  If  Phillis  Dormer  dies  without  mak- 
ing her  will,  she  and  her  father  are  heirs-at-law,  and  her  father, 
even  if  alive,  will  never  disturb  her  in  her  possession.  All  will 
be  hers  and  her  husband's.  If  she  only  dies  without  making 
a  will!  if  she  only  dies  before  Donald  McK.elpin  comes 
home. 

Even  to  her  own  heart — selfish,  mercenary,  irreligious  as 
Cyrilla  is,  she  will  not  own  that  she  wishes  this  sudden  death. 
But  she  does  ;  and  the  shadow  of  murder — the  murder  of  desire- 
rests  upon  her  as  she  stands  here. 

With  a  horror  none  but  those  who  fear  death  can  know,  Miss 
Dormer  shrinks  from  the  thought  of  making  her  will.  She  loves 
her  money  ;  all  her  dreary  life  long  it  has  been  to  her  husband, 
children,  friends,  religion.  To  will  it  deliberately  away  to  her 
niece,  or  even  to  Donald  McKelpin,  is  bitterer  than  the  bitter- 
ness of  death  itself.  This  the  girl  knows ;  no  will  has  been 
made,  none  is  likely  to  be  made  ;  on  that  now  all  Cyrilla's  life 
hangs.  If  Miss  Dormer  dies  intestate,  riches,  happiness,  this 
world  and  the  glory  thereof,  will  be  hers,  with  the  husband  she 
passionately  loves  ;  if  she  does  not 

"My  solemn  Cyrilla!"  says  a  voice  drawing  near,  "how  wan 
and  unearthly  you  look  standing  here  in  the  gloaming,  gazing 
at  the  stars.  If  you  had  on.  a  white  dress,  you  might  have  been 


VENDETTA  t  22^ 

tal  en  for  the  ghost  of  Dormer  He-use.  And  Dormer  House  is 
just  the  sort  of  gruesome  place  to  have  a  ghost." 

"  Freddy  !  "  she  exclaims,  waking  from  her  gloomy  reverie  and 
holding  out  her  hand,  "  I  must  have  been  far  away,  indeed, 
since  1  never  heard  you  come." 

"And  what  were  you  thinking  of,  Beauty  ?  The  husband  who 
adores  you,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  of  a  much  less  tender  subject — Aunt  Dormer*swill." 

There  is  a  pause.  She  takes  his  arm  and  walks  with  him 
up  and  down  the  grassy  path.  The  high  wooden  wall  shuts 
them  from  the  view  of  outsiders  ;  Miss  Dormer's  drugged  sleep 
will  last  for  another  half-hour.  Old  Joanna,  deaf  and  stupid, 
never  was  guilty  of  looking  out  of  a  window  in  her  life.  So  Mr. 
Carew  can  come  to  see  his  wife  this  time  every  evening  with- 
out fear  of  detection. 

"  Beauty,"  he  begins,  gravely,  at  the  expiration  of  that  pause, 
"you  think  too  much  of  Miss  Dormer's  will.  Don't  be 
offended  at  my  saying  so,  but  one  may  buy  even  gold  too  dear. 
I'm  not  a  preaching  sort  of  fellow  as  a  rule,"  Mr.carew  goes  on 
apologetically,  "  and  I  never  interfere  with  any  of  your  projects, 
because  I  know  you've  got  twice  the  brains  I  have,  and  in  a 
general  way  know  what  you' re  about.  But,  my  dear  child,  there 
is  something  absolutely  revolting  in  the  way  you  look  forward 
to  that  poor  old  lady's  death." 

Cyrilla  looks  at  him  for  a  moment  in  whimsical  surprise,  then 
she  laughs. 

"  My  dear  Fred,  what  a  precocious  little  boy  you  are  getting 
to  be  !  Your  sentiments  do  you  honor  of  course,  all  the  same ; 
please  tell  me  what  we  are  to  do  if  Aunt  Dormer  cuts  me  off 
with  a  shilling." 

"Trust  in  Providence  and  my  Uncle  Dunraith,  and  live  on 
my  pay  meantime,"  responds  Freddy,  promptly. 

"  Where,  Fred  ?  In  the  back  bed-room  of  a  third-rate  board- 
ing-house ?  And  if  Uncle  Dunraith  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
penniless  cry  of  his  starving  nephew  and  niece,  what  then?" 

"  I'll  sell  out  and  start  a  grocery,  set  up  a  boarding-house, 
teach  a  school,  sweep  a  crossing;  anything,  anything,*'  says 
Fred,  with  a  vague  wave  of  his  hands,  "  except  wish  poor  Miss 
Dormer  dead  before  her  time." 

"  1  don't  wish  her  dead,"  answers  Cyrilla,  with  asperity,  "  but 
die  she  must,  and  that  speedily  ;  is  there  any  harm,  then,  in  my 
hoping  she  may  die  wivhout  a  will?  If  she  docs,  all  is  well  for 
you  and  me,  Freddy  ;  we  will  go  ba;  *  to  England,  dear,  old 


*z8  VENDETTA! 

England,  and  when  we  tire  of  that  we  will  run  about  the  world 
together — that  modern  marvel,  as  the  poet  says  : 

"  '  Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought, 
That  never  disagree  ! ' 

"  Ah !  Fred,  we  can  be  very  happy  together,  with  Aunt  Dor- 
mer's money." 

"We  can  be  very  happy  together  without,"  Mr.  Carew  answers. 
"  Jf  I  lived  in  a  garret  and  starved  on  a  crust  /could  be  happy, 
'Rilla,  love,  so  that  you  were  near.  Don't  hope  too  much  ;  the 
disappointment  when  it  comes  will  be  all  the  harder  to  bear." 

"  Don't  talk  of  disappointment,"  cries  Cyrilla,  angrily  ;  "  I 
will  not  listen.  There  shall  be  no  disappointment.  She  has  no 
thought  of  making  a  will  I  know,  no  thought  of  dying  ;  and 
Dr.  Foster  told  me  only  this  morning,  she  would  hardly  live  the 
week  out." 

Again  there  is  silence.  They  walk  slowly  up  and  down  under 
the  scented,  budding  trees,  with  the  pale,  sweet  shine  of  the 
little  yellow  moon  sifting  down  on  their  grave  faces.  Presently 
Fred  speaks. 

"  You  have  heard  nothing  yet  from  Miss  Jones  ?  " 

"  Nothing;  she  has  not  written.  Every  letter  that  enters  the 
house  passes  through  my  hands.  No  one  has  been  here  except 
Dr.  Foster.  Mrs.  Fogarty,  as  I  told  you,  called  twice,  and  each 
time  I  refused  to  let  her  in.  She  looked  as  if  she  meant  mis- 
chief, too." 

"  And  Miss  Jones  meant  mischief,  if  ever  I  saw  it  in  a  woman's 
face.  It  is  odd  she  has  not  written,  but  I  have  a  conviction 
she  will  yet.  I  never  saw  such  hatred  before  in  human  eyes." 

"  Miss  Jones  has  eyes  exactly  like  a  cat,"  says  Cyrilla. 
"'Well,  so  that  Aunt  Dormer  is  comfortably  in  her  grave,  they 
may  do  their  worst.  Oh  !  Fred  ;  how  can  one  help  wishing  she 
would  die  and  have  done  with  it,  when  so  much  is  at  stake  ! " 

"  All  the  money  in  the  world  is  not  worth  one  such  wish, 
'Rilla.  What  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  this  :  if,  through  Miss 
Jones,  it  should  come  to  your  aunt's  knowledge  that  we  were 
together  in  New  York,  don't  deny  our  marriage.  Mind,  Cyrilla, 
don't !  Neither  Miss  Jones,  nor  your  aunt,  nor  any  one  else, 
shall  ever  think  you  were  with  me  there,  except  as  my  wife." 

"  Nonsense,  Fred  !  Even  if  Aunt  Dormer  does  hear  it — and 
I  will  take  care  she  does  not — she  still  thinks  I  was  visiting 
Sydney ;  and  I  can  prove  our  meeting  was  accidental." 

"Miss  Jones  knows  better;  she  knows  we  were  at  that  hotel 


VENDETTA!  229 

as  husband  and  wife  For  Heaven's  sake,  Cyrilla,  don't  tell  that 
dying  woman  lies,  it  is  too  contemptible.  Let  us  tell  the  truth  if 
we  must,  and  take  the  consequences.  Nothing  they  can  do  can 
ever  separate  us,  and  our  separation  is  the  only  thing  I  fear." 

"  The  only  thing."  Cyrilla  laughs,  and^all  in  a  moment  her 
face  grows  old  and  hard:  "you  don't  fear  beggary,  then,  or 
squalor,  or  misery,  either  for  yourself  or  for  me  ?  That  is  not 
love  as  I  understand  it.  Freddy,  let  me  tell  you,  once  and  for 
all,  if  Aunt  Dormer  disinherits  me,  I  shall  hate  you  for  having 
made  me  your  wife  !  " 

Again  there  is  silence ;  again  it  is  broken  by  Fred  Carew  in 
a  troubled  voice. 

"  When  does  McKelpin  come  home,  Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  Week  after  next ;  and  if  Miss  Dormer  is  still  alive,  she  pro- 
poses that  the  wedding  shall  be  the  day  after  his  arrival.  Her 
illness  is  a  sufficient  excuse  for  no  preparation,  no  expense.  Il 
is  a  tangled  web,  PYeddy,  out  of  which  I  cannot  see  my  way." 

She  passes  her  hand  across  her  forehead  with  the  same  weary 
gesture  as  in  the  sick-room,  and  sighs  heavily. 

"  I  cannot  advise  you,  Beauty  ;  I'm  not  a  good  one  at  plotting 
and  duplicity.  Tell  the  truth  ;  that  is  the  only  way  out  of  it, 
that  I  can  see.  And  you  need  not  be  so  greatly  afraid,  things 
are  not  as  black  as  you  paint  them.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  tell  the  truth  and  trust  in  me." 

"  I  must  go  in,"  Cyrilla  answers,  coldly.  "  Aunt  Dormer  will 
awake,  and  be  furious  if  she  misses  me.  I  have  watched  with 
her  two  nights ;  I  feel  hardly  able  to  stand." 

"  You  are  wearing  yourself  out,  rny  darling,"  her  husband  says, 
looking  at  her  with  wistful  tenderness.  Ah  !  Cyrilla,  I  never 
much  wished  •for  fortune  before.  I  always  seemed  to  have 
enough  ;  but  I  wish  I  were  rich  for  your  sake.  Good-by,  then, 
since  you  must  go." 

"  Good-by,"  she  repeats,  mechanically.  She  turns  to  go  in. 
He  has  gone  a  few  steps,  when  he  wheels  suddenly  and  conies 
back. 

"  Beauty,"  he  says,  "  I  want  to  warn  you  again.  If  our  being 
together  in  New  York  conies  to  Miss  Dormer's  ears  confess  our 
marriage.  It  would  take  a  good  deal  to  make  me  angry  with 
you — you  know  that ;  but  if  you  let  any  one — any  one — think 
you  were  with  me  there  other  than  as  my  wife,  I  couldn't  forgive 
you.  Promise  me  this." 

"I  will  promise  you  nothing.  Good-night,"  she  says,  shorily, 
and  disappears  into  the  dark  and  dreary  dwelling. 


2 30  VENDETTA  I 

\ 

Fred  Carew  goes  back  to  his  quarters,  his  handsome,  genial 
face  looking  strangely  anxious  and  troubled.  And  Fred  Ca- 
rew's  wilful  wife  drags  herself  spiritlessly  up  to  her  aunt's  room. 
You  may  buy  gold  too  dear,  had  said  Fred.  Surely  she 
thought  if  every  penny  came  to  her,  she  was  buying  her  gold  at 
a  fearful  price. 

It  was  Joanna's  night  to  watch,  and  Joanna  was  already  ir 
the  sick-room.  The  dim  lamp  was  lit  ;  the  close  atmosphere 
seemed  stilling  to  Cyrilla,  coming  in  out  of  the  fresh,  cool  air. 
Miss  Dormer  opened  her  eyes  at  the  moment  and  peevishly 
cried  out  for  her  wine  and  water. 

"  Here,  aunt." 

Cyrilla  raised  the  feeble  old  head,  gave  her  the  drink,  shook 
and  adjusted  the  pillows  and  replaced  her  among  them. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  aunt,  I  am  going  to  my  room,  now. 
Joanna  is  here-.  Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you  before 
I  go?" 

"  No.  Go — you  are  only  too  glad  to  go.  You  hate  to  sit 
an  hour  with  me  after  all  I've  done  for  you.  Ah !  the 
Hendricks  were  a  bad  lot,  a  bad  lot — how  could  you  be  any- 
thing but  bad,  too  ?  " 

"  Good-night,  Aunt  Dormer." 

Aunt  Dormer  disdains  reply.  Cyrilla  goes.  She  is  so  dead 
tired,  so  utterly  exhausted,  that  she  flings  herself  on  her  bed, 
dressed  as  she  is,  and  in  five  minutes  is  soundly  and  dreamlessly 
asleep. 

So  soundly,  so  deeply,  that  when  an  hour  later  Dr.  Foster 
comes,  she  never  hears  his  loud  knock.  Two  ladies  are  with 
him  :  two  ladies  who  take  seats  in  the  chill,  vault-like  parlor, 
while  he  goes  up  to  the  sick-room.  He  feels  his  patient's  pulse, 
says  there  is  less  fever  ;  she  is  sinking  rapidly,  but  he  does  not 
tell  her  that. 

"  Miss  Dormer,"  he  says,  "two  ladies  have  accompanied  me 
here  on  what  one  of  them  says  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Her  name  is  Miss  Jones.  The  other  is  Mrs.  Fogarty,  one  of  my 
patients  and  the  wealthiest  lady  in  Montreal.  They  are  down- 
stairs and  beg  most  earnestly  to  be  admitted  to  see  you." 

"  I  ne-ser  see  ladies,"  cries  Miss  Dormer,  shrilly  ;  "you  know 
that.  What  did  you  bring  them  here  for  ?  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself,  Foster." 

Doctor  Foster  knows  her.  He  expects  to  send  in  a  bill  to 
her  executors  presently  that  will  make  them  open  their  eyes. 
He  bean  this,  therefore,  like  the  urbane  gentleman  he  is. 


VENDETTA!  231 

Furthermore,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  one  of  his  very  best  pnying  patients, 
has  given  him  to  understand  that  if  he  does  not  procure  her 
this  interview,  she  will  be  under  the  painful  necessity  of  taking 
herself  and  her  ailments  elsewhere. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  blandly  says,  "  did  you  observe  when  I 
told  you  it  was  a  matter  of  almost  life  or  death  ?  I  really  think 
yon  had  better  break  through  your  excellent  rule  in  this  instance. 
They  are  ladies  of  the  utmost  respectability,  and  one  of  them 
of  great  wealth.  They  have  no  sinister  motive,  I  assure  you. 
It  is  concerning  some  extraordinary  deception  that  is  being 
practised  upon  you  by  your  very  charming  niece,  Miss  Hen- 
drick." 

Miss  Dormer  has  been  lying  back  on  her  pillows  glaring  at 
him,  an  awful  object.  At  these  last  words  she  utters  a  shrill  cry. 

"  I  knew  it  i  I  knew  it !  I  always  said  so  !  She  comes  of 
a  bad  race,  and  she's  the  worst  of  them  all.  Fetch  them  up 
here  at  once  !  do  you  go,  Joanna  !  fetch  them  up,  I  say  at  once." 

A  moment  more,  and  with  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  a  waft  of  per- 
fume, Mrs.  Fogarty  sweeps  smilingly  into  the  chamber.  Up- 
right, stiff,  angular,  solemn  Miss  Jones  comes  after. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dormer,  at  last  1  have  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing your  acquaintance.  I  have  long  desired  it,  and  even  under 
the  present  melancholy  circumstances " 

Mrs.  Fogarty  has  fluently  and  smilingly  got  thus  far  when 
Miss  Dormer,  with  a  harsh  cry,  cuts  her  short. 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  fine  talk,  ma'am.  I  know  what 
fine  talk  is  worth.  Old  Foster  and  my  niece,  Cyrilla,  give  me 
enough  of  that.  It's  about  my  niece,  Cyrilla,  you've  come. 
Now  what  have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  First,  I  must  really  apologize  for  the  hour  of  our  coming," 
says  Mrs.  Fogarty ;  "  but  this,  also,  is  the  fault  of  your  niece. 
I  have  been  here  twice  this  week,  and  she  refused  me  admis- 
sion. I  don't  call  her  Miss  Hendrick,  because  Miss  Hendrick 
has  ceased  to  be  her  name  ! " 

A  second  harsh  cry  from  Miss  Dormer,  her  sunken  eyes  are 
glaring  in  a  ghastly  way  up  at  the  speaker. 

"  Not  her  name  ?  Woman,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Why  is 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  not  her  name  ?  " 

"  Because,"  answers  Mrs.  Fogarty,  snapping  her  white  teeth 
together  like  an  angry  little  dog,  "  it  is  Mrs.  Frederic  Carew  I" 

"  Or  ought  to  be  !  "  in  a  solemn  voice,  puts  in  Miss  Jones. 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  that  name  unheard  so  long,  nevet 
forgotten,  Phillis  Dormer  gives  a  gasp  and  lies  speechless. 


2J2  VENDETTA  I 

Frederic  CareAv  !  Frederic  Carew  !  It  is  the  father  she  is 
thinking  of,  not  the  son. 

"  We  have  taken  you  by  surprise,"  Mrs.  Fogarty  goes  on. 
"  You  did  not  know,  I  presume,  he  was  in  Canada  at  all.  Such  is 
the  fact,  nevertheless.  He  came  last  October,  and  your  niece 
has  been  holding  continual  intercourse  with  him  ever  since." 

She  knows  now,  the  first  shock  over.  It  is  the  son  of  Frede- 
ric Carew,  whom  Cyrilla  knew  years  ago  in  England,  they  mean. 
A  savage  light  comes  into  her  eyes,  a  horrid,  hungry  eagerness 
comes  into  her  face. 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  she  pants. 

"  It  is  Miss  Jones  who  has  the  story  to  tell,"  says  Mrs.  Fog- 
arty. "  We  have  the  strongest  reason  to  believe  your  niece, 
Cyrilla,  is  Lieutenant  Frederic  Carew's  wife." 

"Or  ought  to  be  !"  croaks  again  Miss  Jones. 

"  Or  ought  to  be,  exactly.  Still  I  think  she  is.  Three  weeks 
ago  your  niece  was  in  New  York  and  living  with  Mr.  Carew 
at  a  hotel  as  his  wife.  Tell  her  about  it,  Miss  Jones." 

And  then  Miss  Jones  begins  at  the  beginning  and  tells  her  all. 
All — all  that  occurred  in  Petite  St.  Jacques  when  Miss  Hen- 
drick  was  so  nearly  expelled  the  school,  Cyrilla's  revenge  upon 
herself,  and  their  accidental  meeting  three  weeks  ago  in  the 
streets  of  New  York. 

In  stony,  rigid  silence  the  sick  woman  lies  and  listens,  fury 
and  rage  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  may  seem  wicked  to  you,"  says  Miss  Jones,  with  grim 
truth  ;  "but  I  will  own  I  have  taken  the  trouble  and  expense 
of  this  journey  here,  all  the  way  from  New  York,  to  tell  you 
this,  because  I  owe  your  niece  a  grudge.  I  know  from  Made- 
moiselle Stephanie  Chateauroy,  as  I  say,  that  you  disliked  this 
young  man;  I  felt  certain  when  I  saw  them  together  that  you 
were  being  cheated  and  wronged.  Still,  it  is  for  my  own  sake 
I  have  come.  One  good  turn  deserves  another.  By  the  merest 
accident  I  fell  in  with  this  lady  upon  my  arrival  in  Montreal, 
through  her  I  have  found  my  way  to  you.  Your  niece,  Cyrilla, 
and  whether  she  is  this  man's  wife  or  not,  lived  with  him  as  such 
for  a  week  in  the  Clarendon  Hotel." 

"  I  have  known  this  long  time  that  they  were  lovers,"  inter- 
rupts Mrs.  Fogarty.  "  I  once  witnessed  a  disgusting  love 
scene  between  them  myself." 

Still  that  stony,  rigid  silence,  still  the  stricken  woman  glares 
up  at  them  awfully  from  her  bed. 

'*  This  is  all  ?  "  she  hoarsely  asks,  at  length. 


VENDETTA!  233 

"  This  is  all ;  enough,  I  think,"  responds  Mrs.  Fogarty,  with 
a  shor.  laugh. 

The  burning,  eager  eyes  glance  away  from  one  cruel  face  to 
the  other. 

"  You  are  prepared  to  repeat  all  this  in  my  niece's  presence, 
I  suppose?" 

"  Whenever  and  wherever  called  upon,"  replies  Miss  Jones. 

"  Then  you  may  go  now  ;  I'll  send  for  you  both  to-morrow. 
I'll  pay  you,  ma'am,  for  your  news.  I'm  a  poor  woman,  but 
I'm  able  and  willing  to  pay  for  that.  Ring  that  bell  for  Joanna, 
and  go." 

Her  hands  clench  in  a  fierce  grasp  on  the  bed-clothes,  her 
eyes  stare,  blind  with  pain  and  rage,  up  at  the  ceiling.  The 
bitterness,  the  fury  of  this  hour  is  like  nothing  the  wretched 
woman  can  ever  remember  before.  Long  ago  she  loved  and 
trusted,  and  was  betrayed  ;  now  she  has  neither  loved  nor 
trusted,  and  she  has  been  betrayed,  once  again,  by  the  girl  she 
has  cherished  and  cared  for,  the  only  creature  in  whom  her 
blood  runs,  and  by  the  son  of  the  man  who  wrecked  her  life. 

Cyrilla  Hendrick  is  the  wife,  or  light  of  love,  of  Frederic 
Carew's  son — to  Frederic  Carew's  son  will  all  her  loved  and 
hoarded  wealth  go,  if  she  dies  without  a  will.  She  shrieks  out 
like  a  madwoman  at  that,  and  beats  the  bed-clothes  with  frantic 
hands. 

"  Go  to  Shelburne  Street — go  to  Lawyer  Pomfret's  house. 
Joanna,  do  you  hear  ?  Go — go  at  once.  Go,  I  tell  you,  quick  !  " 

Old  Joanna,  returning  from  bolting  her  visitors  out,  stares 
blankly  at  her  mistress. 

"  Idiot !  fool !  what  do  you  stand  gaping  there  for  ?  Don't 
you  hear  what  I  say  ? — deaf  old  addle-head  !  Go  to  Lawyer 
Pomfret's  house,  and  fetch  him  here.  Tell  him  it's  the  rich 
Miss  Dormer  who  wants  him,  and  that  it  is  a  matter  of  life  or 
death  !  Go  !  " 

Joanna  never  disputes  her  mistress's  will.  She  looks  at  the 
clock — only  ten.  Without  a  word  she  puts  on  her  shawl  and 
bonnet,  locks  the  door  after  her,  and  starts  at  a  jog-trot  for  the 
lawyer  who  is  to  make  Miss  Dormer's  will. 

In  the  lonely  sick-room  the  dim  lamp  glimmers,  shadows 
thick  in  the  corners  of  the  large  room.  On  her  death-bed  the 
stricken  old  sinner  lies,  body  and  soul  full  of  pain  and  torture> 
hatred  and  revenge.  And  up-stairs,  in  her  bate,  comfortless 
chamber,  Cyrilla  sleeps  deeply,  while  the  retribution  rer  own 
hand  has  wrorght  gathers  above  her  head. 


»34  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART" 

I 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART." 

[YRILLA,  as  a  rule,  was  inclined  to  sleep  late  of  morn 
ings  ;  Miss  Dormer,  as  a  rule,  was  inclined  not  to  let 
her.  At  seven,  precisely,  winter  and  summer,  Joanna 
stood  at  her  bedside,  to  summon  her  down  stairs.  At 
seven  on  the  morning  after  her  interview  with  Fred,  Cjrilla  ex- 
pected to  be  routed  out  as  usual.  But  when  she  opened  her 
eyes,  after  the  long  unbroken  sleep,  it  was  to  find  the  sunshine 
filling  her  scantily-furnished  little  upper  chamber,  and  the  clock 
of  a  neighboring  church  tolling  the  hour  of  nine. 

Nine  !  She  sprang  from  her  bed  in  dismay.  What  was 
Aunt  Dormer,  what  was  Joanna  about,  to  let  her  sleep  Hke 
this  ?  Had  anything  happened  in  the  night  ?  Was  Aunt  Dor- 
mer  ,  she  would  not  finish  the  question  even  to  herself,  but 

her  heart  gave  a  great  bound.  The  next  moment  she  knew 
better;  if  anything  like  that  had  occurred,  she  would  have  been 
instantly  summoned  by  the  deaf  old  domestic,  she  felt  sure. 
She  hurriedly  arranged  her  clothes,  made  her  hasty  ablutions, 
smoothed  her  dark  rippling  hair  and  ran  down  to  her  aunt's 
room.  She  softly  opened  the  door  and  entered.  The  close, 
fetid  atmosphere  seemed  to  sicken  her, — ill  or  well,  Miss 
Dormer  had  an  insuperable  aversion  to  fresh  air.  She  advanced 
to  the  bedside  ;  in  the  dim  light,  the  skinny  bloodless  face  lay 
still  upon  its  pillows  ;  the  eyes,  glitteringly  bright,  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  weird  stare. 

"  Dear  aunt,  I  am  sorry  I  overslept  myself.  How  was  it 
Joanna  did  not  call  me  as  usual  ?  " 

"  You  have  watched  with  me  two  nights  in  succession,  Niece 
Cyrilla.  Young  people  need  rest." 

"  How  are  you  this  morning,  Aunt  Phil  ?  Easier,  I  trust  ? 
Have  you  had  a  good  night  ?  " 

At  that  question  the  old  woman  broke  into  the  strangest, 
wildest  laugh  ;  a  laugh  most  dreadful  to  hear,  most  ghastly  to  see. 

"A  good  night,  Niece  Cyrilla?  Yes,  a  good  night,  a  good 
night,  the  like  of  which  I've  never  had  but  once  before,  and  that 
five-and-twenty  years  ago  !  And  I'm  strong  and  well  to-day  ; 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear,  for  I've  a  great  deal  to  do  before  night, 
Niece  Cyrilla,  do  you  believe  in  ghostb  ?  " 


"  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  235 

"  Dear  aunt." 

"  Yes.  I  am  dear  to  you,  am  I  not  ?  You  wouldn't  deceive 
or  trouble  me  in  any  way,  would  you  ?  I'm  going  to  see  a 
ghost  to-day.  Niece  Cyrilla — ghosts  don't  generally  appear  in 
daylight  either,  do  they  ? — the  ghost  of  a  man  dead  and  buried 
five-and-twenty  years.  Five-and-twenty  years  !  Oh,  me,  what 
a  while  ago  it  seems  ! " 

Was  the  old  woman  going  insane  ?  Was  this  the  delirium 
that  precedes  death?  Cyrilla  stood  looking  at  her,  and  yet 
there  was  no  fever  in  her  face,  no  wildness  in  her  eyes,  and 
crazy  as  her  talk  was  it  did  not  sound  like  delirium.  The 
golden  rays  of  the  jubilant  morning  sunshine  tried  to  force  a 
passage  in,  and  here  and  there  succeeded,  making  lines  of 
amber  glitter  across  the  dull  red  carpet.  All  things  were  in 
their  places,  no  voice  spoke  to  tell  her  that  in  this  room  her 
ruin  last  night  had  been  wrought. 

"  Go  down-stairs,  Niece  Cyrilla,  and  get  your  breakfast. 
Fetch  me  up  mine  when  you  come.  I  have  something  to  say 
to  you  when  it  is  over." 

Something  to  say  to  her  !  Wondering,  uneasily,  the  girl  de- 
scended to  the  kitchen,  the  only  clean  and  cozy  apartment  in 
the  house,  where  Joanna,  on  a  little,  white-draped  stand,  had 
her  tea  and  toast  set  out. 

"  Joanna  ! "  shouted  Cyrilla,  sitting  down  to  her  morning  meal, 
"did  anything  more  than  customary  happen  here  last  night  ?" 

The  old  woman  nodded  her  deaf  head. 

"  Aye,  miss,  that  there  did.  She  had  visitors.  Ladies," 
(Joanna  spoke  invariably  in  short  jerks),  "  fine  ladies.  Silks 
and  scents  on  one.  Come  with  the  doctor." 

Ladies  !  Instantly  Cyrilla's  mind  flew  to  Miss  Jones.  But 
"silks  and  scents" — that  did  not  apply. 

"  Was  one  of  them  tall  and  thin,  with  a  sharp,  pale  face,  a 
long  nose,  a  tight,  wide  mouth,  pursed  up  like  this — and  a  way 
of  folding  her  hands  in  front  of  her — so  ?  " 

"Aye,  miss — that's  her.  Tall  and  thin.  With  a  long  nose. 
And  a  wide  mouth.  And  her  hands  in  front  of  her.  That's 
her,  miss — to  the  life." 

Miss  Jones  then,  at  last.  "Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine 
enemy  ?"  While  she  slept,  off  guard,  her  foe  had  forced  her 
way  in  and  all  her  secret  was  told.  She  turned  for  a  moment 
sick  and  faint — she  turned  away  from  her  untasted  breakfast 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  This,  then,  was  what  Miss 
Dormer  meant. 


236  «  GOOD  BYE,  SWEETHEART." 

"  T'other  one,"  began  old  Joanna,  still  in  jerks.  "  Tall,  too, 
White  teeth.  Silks  and  scents.  Roses  in  her  bonnet.  Red 
spots  on  her  cheeks.  Paint,  /think." 

Mrs.  Fogarty !  There  was  no  mistaking  the  description— 
the  only  two  who  hated  her  on  earth.  All  was  over — notl  ing 
remained  but  to  "  cover  her  face  and  die  with  dignity." 

And  then,  in  Joanna's  little  kitchen,  all  aglitter  with  its 
floods  of  May  sunshine,  a  struggle  began — a  struggle  for  a 
soul. 

"  Tell  the  truth.  All  the  money  in  the  world  is  not  worth 
one  such  lie  as  this.  It  is  too  contemptible  to  deceive  that  poor 
old  dying  lady,"  whispered  her  good  angel  in  the  voice  of  Fred 
Carew.  "  Come  with  me  ;  I  will  care  for  you.  Things  will 
not  be  so  bad  as  you  fear.  Trust  in  Providence  and  my  uncle 
Dunraith.  Meantime  we  can  live  on  my  pay."  Fred's  honest 
blue  eyes  shine  upon  her,  Fred's  tender,  manly  voice  is  in  her 
ears.  "  If  this  does  come  to  your  aunt's  knowledge,  don't  deny 
our  marriage.  Mind  !  I  warn  you.  It  would  take  a  great 
deal  to  make  me  angry  with  you,  but  I  could  not  forgive  that." 
The  tender  voice  grows  stern,  the  pleasant  face  grave  and  set 
as  he  says  it.  "  Oh !  tell  the  truth,"  her  own  heart  pleads ; 
"  it  is  a  revolting  thing  to  tell  deliberate  lies  to  the  dying." 

"And  lose  all  for  which  you  have  labored  so  hard — suffered 
so  much — borne  so  many  insults — endured  months  and  months 
of  imprisonment  worse  than  death  !  Leave  this  house  and  go 
out  to  beggary,  to  humiliation,  to  pinching  and  poverty,  scant 
dinners,  and  scantier  dress  !  Let  your  arch  enemies,  Fogarty 
and  Jones,  triumph  over  you,  throw  up  the  sponge  to  Fate  at 
the  first  defeat,  and  resign  the  fortune  justly  yours — yours  by 
every  claim  of  blood  and  law — to  Donald  McKelpin  !  Never  ! " 

She  looks  up,  her  eyes  flash,  her  teeth  set,  her  hands  clench. 
Never !  She  will  fight  to  the  last  against  them  all — against 
Destiny  itself.  She  will  die  sooner  than  yield. 

The  battle  is  over,  the  victory  won,  and  the  tempter,  whis- 
pering in  her  ear,  in  the  archives  below,  "  records  one  lost  soul 
more." 

"  Joanna."  she  says,  rising,  "  is  Aunt  Dormer's  breakfast 
ready  ?  I  want  to  bring  it  up." 

"But  you've  eat  none  yourself?  Tea  ain't  drunk — toast 
ain't  eat.  Sick,  are  you?"  says  old  Joanna,  peering  in  her 
face.  "  You're  white  as  a  sheet." 

"Am  I  ?  "  Cyrilla  answers,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  am  never  very 
red,  you  know." 


"GOOD-EYE,  SWEETHEART."  237 

She  seizes  a  coarse  crash  towel  and  rubs  her  cheeks  and  lips 
until  a  semblance  of  color  returns. 

"  Now,  quick,  Joanna,"  she  says,  with  another  reckless  laugh. 
"  I  go  to  '  put  it  to  the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all.' " 

She  takes  the  tray  and  ascends  to  the  upper  room.  She 
places  it  before  Miss  Dormer,  and  assists  her  to  sit  up  among 
her  pillows. 

"  I  hope  you  have  an  appetite  this  morning,  Aunt  Phil  ?  " 
she  says,  pleasantly.  "  Everything  is  fresh  and  nice,  and  per- 
fectly cooked." 

Surely  nature  intended  this  girl  for  an  actress.  Every  nerve 
is  braced  for  the  coming  struggle — for  lie  upon  lie — yet  even 
the  hawk  eye  of  Aunt  Dormer  can  trace  no  change  in  voice  or 
face. 

"  Has  Joanna  been  telling  you  I  had  visitors  last  night- 
ladies?"  she  asks,  watching  her  keenly. 

"  Yes,  aunt,  and  I  have  been  wondering  who  they  could  be. 
Joanna  doesn't  seem  to  know." 

"Don't  you  know,  Niece  Cyrilla?" 

"  I  ?  "  Cyrilla  elevates  her  eyebrows.  "  I  am  not  a  clairvoy- 
ant, Aunt  Phil." 

Aunt  Phil  laughs,  her  elfish,  uncanny,  most  disagreeable 
laugh. 

"  You're  a  clever  girl,  Niece  Cyrilla — oh  !  an  uncommonly 
clever  girl.  But  the  Hendricks  were  all  clever — all  clever  and 
all  bad— bad  !  bad  !  bad  ! — bad  to  the  core  !  " 

"  You  have  told  me  that  so  often,  Aunt  Dormer,"  says 
Cyrilla,  in  an  offended  tone,  "don't  you  think  you  might  stop 
now  ?  Seeing  two  of  the  bad  Hendricks  are  your  nearest  of  kin, 
bad  as  they  are,  you  might  spare  them,  I  think." 

"  You  think  so,  do  you  ?  Well,  I  mean  to  spare  one  of  them 
to-day  if  she  gives  me  the  chance.  Take  away  this  tray,  Niece 
Cyrilla.  Now  put  up  that  blind  and  let  in  the  light — plenty  of 
light.  Now  sit  here  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  look  me  in  the 
eyes — straight  in  the  eyes.  1  want  to  see  if  I  can  read  the  lies 
you  will  tell,  in  that  nineteen-year-old  face  of  yours." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  lies.  Aunt  Dormer,"  says 
Cyrilla,  in  the  same  offended  tone,  obeying  all  the  grim  orders 
as  given. 

"  Are  you  not  ?  Then  you  differ  from  all  the  Hendricks  / 
ever  knew.  Your  father  never  told  the  truth  in  his  life,  and  we 
don't  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles,  we  are  told. 
Your  mother  was  a  weak  little  fool — perhaps  you  take  your 


238  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART* 

truth-telling  proclivities  from  her.  Let  me  see,  where  I  want 
to  begin  !  Niece  Cyrilla,  is  Frederick  Carew's  son  in  Canada  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  have  found  that  out  !  How  cruel  to  tell  you — 
you  who  hate  the  very  sound  of  the  name." 

"  You  own  it  then  ?  He  is  here.  You  have  met  him ;  have 
been  meeting  him  constantly  since  last  October  ?  " 

Cyrilla  looks  up — a  flash  of  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

"  No,  Aunt  Dormer,  I  deny  it  !  Whoever  tells  you  that,  tells 
you  a  falsehood.  I  have  seen  him — only  a  few  times — and  I 
did  not  speak  of  it  to  you.  Why  should  I  ?  I  knew  it  would 
vex  you  to  know  he  was  here  at  all,  and  his  presence  made  no 
difference  to  me,  one  way  or  other." 

"  None  !  Take  care  !  Is  he  not  your  lover,  Niece  Cy- 
rilla ?  " 

"  Aunt.  I  was  a  little  girl  when  I  knew  him  in  England.  I 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing  as  lovers.  Here  I  have  met  him, 
but  a  few  times  as  I  say,  and  always  in  the  presence  of  others. 
We  have  had  no  opportunity,  if  we  had  the  desire  to  be  lovers. 

"Always  in  the  presence  of  others,"  Miss  Dormer  repeats, 
her  basilisk  gaze  never  leaving  her  niece's  unflinching  face. 
"  Who  were  the  '  others '  the  night  you  stole  out  of  your  bed- 
room window  at  school,  to  meet  him  in  darkness,  and  by  stealth, 
in  the  grounds  of  your  school  ?  " 

"  They  have  told  you  that,  then  ! "  exclaims  Cyrilla,  in  con- 
fusion. "  Aunt,  dear  aunt  !  do  not  be  angry.  I  did  do  that — 
a  rash  act,  I  allow,  and  one  for  which  I  nearly  suffered  severely, 
but  I  did  it  only  to  hear  news  of  papa.  You  do  not  believe  me, 
perhaps." — Oh  !  the  infinite  scorn  and  unbelieving  of  Miss 
Dormer's  face — but  I  love  my  father,  and  am  always  glad  and 
eager  to  hear  news  of  him.  Fred  Carew  was  just  from  England, 
"he  had  seen  him  shortly  before,  and  brought  from  him  a  message 
for  me.  He  tried  to  deliver  it  at  Mrs.  Delamere's — where  by 
purest  accident  we  met — but  an  odious  woman,  one  of  the 
teachers,  gave  him  no  chance.  I  was  dying  to  hear  it — I  know 
and  regret  my  folly,  aunt — I  did  steal  out  and  spend  ten  minutes 
with  him  in  the  garden  ;  not  more.  The  woman — a  detestable 
spy — found  me  out,  and  Mile.  Chateauroy  threatened  to  expel 
ree.  Aunt,  I  assure  you  that  was  the  first  and  only  time — oh, 
well !  with  one  exception." 

"  And  that  exception,  my  dear  Niece  Cyrilla?  " 

"Was  in  New  York.  Leaving  Miss  Owenson's  house  one 
day,  I  encountered  him  in  Madison  Square.  He  rode  down 
town  with  me  in  the  omnibus,  and  in  that  omnibus  we  met  by 


"  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART*  239 

chance,  Miss  Jones,  the  spying  teacher.  It  is  from  her  all  this 
has  come.  1  know  how  spiteful,  and  contemptible,  and  false  a 
wretch  she  is." 

"  And  that  is  all,  Niece  Cyrilla — all  ?  You  never  met  him 
at  Mrs.  Delamere's  here  in  Montreal,  or  at  that  other  woman's 
— what  is  her  Irish  name — Fogarty  ?  " 

"  Aunt  Phil,  I  told  you  I  had  met  him  a  few  times,  but  always 
in  the  presence  of  others.  I  did  not  mention  it  to  you  at  the 
time.  I  was  afraid  you  would  forbid  my  accepting  any  more 
invitations,  and  these  parties  were  all  the  pleasure  I  had.  Was 
it  any  such  great  crime  to  meet  him  by  accident  there  ?  " 

"  No  crime  at  all,  only — what  a  pity  you  did  not  tell  me.  It 
would  be  so  much  easier  to  believe  you  now,  if  you  had  not  de- 
ceived me  then.  And  this  is  all,  absolutely  all  ?  " 

"  All,  Aunt  Dormer  !  "  Unflinchingly  still,  the  black  stead- 
fast eyes  above  met  the  fiercely  questioning  eyes  below. 

"  He  is  not  your  lover?  " 

"  My  lover  !  Nonsense  !  This  is  Miss  Jones'  or  Mrs.  Fog- 
arty' s  doing.  They  were  both  in  love  with  him  themselves." 

"  What  a  fascinating  young  Lovelace  he  must  be  !  I  should 
like  to  see  him.  He  is  not  your  husband  then,  Niece  Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  My "  But  this  joke  is  so  stupendous  that  Cyrilla  laughs 

aloud. 

"  You  did  not  live  with  him  as  his  wife  for  a  week  in  New 
Yoik?  "  pursues  Miss  Dormer.  Her  eyes  never  seem  to  wink, 
never  seem  to  go  for  a  second  from  her  niece's  face.  Cyrilla 
starts  up  indignantly,  as  if  this  were  past  bearing. 

"  Aunt  Dormer  !  "  she  exclaims  haughtily,  "  this  is  beyond 
a  jest.  Even  you  have  no  right  to  say  to  me  such  things  as 
these.  If  you  choose  to  believe  my  enemies,  women  who  hate 
and  are  jealous  of  me — who  will  stop  at  no  lie  to  ruin  me — then 
I  have  no  more  to  say  ! " 

She  stands  before  her,  her  dark  eyes  flashing,  her  dark  face 
eloquent  with  outraged  pride.  As  a  piece  of  acting,  the  pose, 
the  look,  were  admirable.  When  she  said  she  would  have 
played  Lady  Teazle  better  than  poor  Dolly  De  Courcy,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  she  spoke  the  truth. 

"  Then  it  is  all  false — all  ?  You  own  to  having  gone  out  of 
the  window  to  meet  this  young  man  ?  "  says  Miss  Dormer,  check- 
ing off  the  indictments  on  her  skinny  fingers,  "  to  having  met 
him  at  the  Delamere's  and  at  the  Fogarty  woman's.  You  own 
to  having  come  upon  him  by  accident  in  New  York,  and  ridden 
with  him  in  an  omnibus.  But  he  never  was  your  lover,  and  he 


240  "  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART." 

is  not  your  husband.  You  never  lived  with  him  for  a  week  in 
a  New  York  hotel.  That  is  how  the  case  stands  ?  " 

Cyrilla  bows  ;  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  black,  her  form  erect, 
her  look  indignant. 

"  You  see  I  want  to  make  things  clear,"  continues  Miss 
Dormer,  almost  apologetically  ;  "  my  time  may  be  short,"  a 
spasm  convulses  her  face  ;  "  and  a  good  deal  depends  on  it. 
Mr.  McKelpin  will  be  here  next  week,  and  your  innocence 
must  be  proven  before  he  returns.  I  would  rather  believe  these 
women  false  than  you.  You  will  not  mind  denying  all  this  in 
thei:  presence,  I  suppose,  Niece  Cyrilla  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  Aunt  Dormer." 

"  Then  I  think  that  will  do.  I  am  tired  with  all  this  talking. 
Sit  down  there,  and  take  that  book,  and  read  me  to  sleep." 

Cyrilla  obeys.  Her  heart  is  beating  in  loud,  muffled  throbs, 
she  feels  sick  and  cold,  a  loathing  of  herself  fills  her.  But  she 
will  not  go  back — on  the  dark  road  she  is  treading  there  seems 
no  going  back. 

At  noon  the  doctor  comes,  and  Cyrilla  quits  the  sick-room 
for  a  breathing-spell.  In  that  interval  the  doctor  receives  from 
his  patient  a  message  for  "  the  Fogarty  woman."  She  is  to 
wait  upon  Miss  Dormer  with  her  friend  Miss  Jones  at  five 
o'clock.  She  also  dictates  a  note  to  a  third  person,  which  the 
obliging  physician  undertakes  to  deliver. 

Miss  Dormer  keeps  her  niece  under  her  eye  until  about  half- 
past  four  in  the  afternoon.  Then  she  despatches  her  to  the 
druggist's,  with  orders  to  be  back  precisely  at  five.  Cyrilla  is 
glad  to  go  out,  glad  to  breathe  the  fresh,  clear  air.  The 
walk  is  long,  she  hurries  fast,  gets  what  she  wants  and  hurries 
back.  But,  in  spite  of  her  haste,  it  is  ten  minutes  past  five  when 
she  lets  herself  in,  and  runs  up  to  her  aunt's  chamber.  She 
flings  open  the  door  and  enters  hastily. 

''The  druggist  kept  me  some  time  waiting  while  he " 

She  has  got  this  far  when  she  breaks  off,  and  the  sentence  is 
never  finished.  Her  eyes  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  dusk 
of  the  room,  and  she  sees  sitting  there,  side  by  side,  her  two 
mutual  foes — Mrs.  Fogarty  and  Miss  Jones. 

"  You  know  these  two  ladies,  Niece  Cyrilla  ?  "  says  the  shrill^ 
piping  voice  of  Miss  Dormer. 

Cyrilla  stands  before  them,  her  black  eyes  flashing — yes,  liter- 
ally and  actually  seeming  to  flash  fire.  Mrs.  Fogarty' s  gaze 
sinks  ;  but  Miss  Jones,  the  better  hater  of  the  two,  meets,  with 
her  light,  sinister  orbs,  that  look  of  black  fury. 


"GOOD-BYE^  SWEETHEART"  141 

*'  It  is  my  misfortune,  Aunt  Doimer,':  says  Cyrilla  in  a  ring- 
ing voice,  "  to  have  known  them  once.  I  know  them  no  more, 
except  as  slanderers  and  traducers  !  " 

The  strong  English  words  flash  out  like  bullets.  For  a  mo- 
ment, they,  with  truth  on  their  side,  flinch  and  quail.  It  is  a 
pugilistic  encounter  d  la  vwrt,  and  the  first  blood  is  for 
Cyrilla. 

"  Ha  !  well  put,"  says  Miss  Dormer,  a  gleam  of  something 
like  admiration  in  the  looks  she  gives  her  niece.  Whatever 
else  the  Hendricks  lacked,  they  never  lacked  pluck,  right  or 
wrong.  Open  the  shutters,  my  dear,  and  let  in  the  light  on 
this  business." 

It  is  the  first  time  in  all  her  life  that  Miss  Dormer  has  called 
the  girl  "  my  dear."  Cyrilla  stoops  over  her,  and  for  the  third 
time  in  her  life,  kisses  her. 

"  Do  not  bel>':ve  their  falsehoods,  Aunt  Phil,"  she  cries  pas- 
sionately. "  1  am  your  niece ;  your  own  flesh  and  blood. 
They  hate  me,  both  of  them.  They  have  laid  this  plot  to  ruin 
me.  Do  not  J-:t  them  do  it." 

"  Prove  them  false,  and  they  shall  not,"  Miss  Dormer  an- 
swers,  her  olr*  eyes  kindling  with  almost  a  kindly  gleam. 
"  You  are  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  you  say,  and  blood  is 
thicker  than  water.  Open  the  shutters  and  raise  me  up." 

Slie  is  obeyed.  It  is  to  be  a  duel  to  the  death.  Every  nerve 
in  tne  girl's  body  is  braced,  she  will  stop  at  nothing — at  nothing, 
to  defeat  these  two.  A  rain  of  amber  sunset  comes  in  ;  over 
the  thousand  metal  roofs  and  shining  crosses  of  Montreal  the 
May  sun  is  setting.  Miss  Dormer  is  propped  up,  and  looks  for 
a  moment  wistfully  out  at  that  lovely  light  in  the  sky — last  sun- 
set she  will  ever  see. 

It  is  a  highly  dramatic  scene.  The  death-room,  the  two  ac- 
cu.sers  sitting  side  by-side,  the  culprit  standing  erect,  her  haughty 
head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  afire,  her  red  lips  one  rigid  line,  her 
haods  unconsciously  clenched. 

"  Niece  Cyrilla,  there  is  a  Bible  yonder  on  the  table.  Hand 
it  here." 

It  is  given.  Miss  Dormer  opens  it,  and  takes  out  a  folded 
paper. 

"  Niece  Cyrilla,  look  !  "  she  says,  and  holds  it  up  ;  "  it  is  my 
will!  Last  light  while  you  slept  I  sent  for  my  lawyer  and 
made  it.  Jt  bequeaths  everything — everything — to  Donald 
AlcRelpin--it  does  not  leave  you  a  penny.  If  I  die  without  a 
will,  all  is  yours,  as  you  know.  Prove  these  two  ladies  wrong  in 


242  "GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART." 

what  they  have  come  here  to  accuse  you  of,  and  I  will  give  you 
this  paper  to  burn  or  destroy  as  you  see  fit,  end  my  solemn 
promise  to  make  no  other." 

A  gleam  like  dark  lightning  leaps  from  Cyrilla' s  eyes.  Prove 
them  wrong  I  What  is  there  that  she  will  btop  at  to  prove  them 
wrong  ? 

"  My  Niece  Cyrilla,"  goes  on  the  sick  woman,  turning  to 
Miss  Jones,  "  admits  that  she  stole  out  of  her  room  to  meet 
this  young  officer  one  night  in  the  school  garden.  She  admits," 
looking  at  Mrs.  Fogarty,  "  having  met  him  at  your  house  and 
at  Mrs.  Delamere's.  She  admits,"  glancing  again  at  Miss  Jones, 
"  having  encountered  him  by  accident  in  New  York,  and  riding 
with  him  a  short  distance  in  the  omnibus.  But  all  else  she 
denies,  positively  and  totally  denies.  Mr.  Carevv  is  not  her 
lover,  is  not  and  never  will  be  her  husband.  She  is  to  marry 
Mr.  Donald  McKelpin  next  week.  Now,  which  am  I  to  be- 
lieve— my  niece,  ladies,  or  you  ?  " 

"  Your  niece  is  a  most  accomplished  actress,  madam,"  says 
the  saw-like  voice  of  Miss  Jones  ;  "  she  can  tell  a  deliberate 
falsehood  and  look  you  straight  in  the  face  while  telling  it.  She 
may  not  be  Mr.  Carew's  wife — all  the  worse  for  Mr.  McKelpin 
if  she  is  not  •  for  she  certainly  lived  with  Mr.  Carew  as  Mrs. 
Carew  in  New  York  for  a  whole  week.  I  saw  them  enter  the 
hotel  together,  I  inquired  of  the  clerk,  and  he  told  me  they 
had  been  there  together  five  days  as  man  and  wife." 

"  Niece  Cyrilla,"  says  Miss  Dormer,  "  what  have  you  to  say 
to  this  ?  " 

"  Nothing  to  her,"  replied  Cyrilla  ;  "  to  you  I  say  it  is  false  I 
totally  false  ;  a  fabrication  from  beginning  to  end." 

"  Let  us  call  another  witness,"  says  Miss  Dormer,  "  since  we 
don't  seem  able  to  agree.  Open  that  door,  Mrs.  Fogarty,  and 
ask  the  gentleman  to  walk  in." 

The  widow  arises  and  does  as  she  is  told,  and  for  the  first 
time  Cyrilla  starts  and  blanches.  For  there  enters  Fred  Carew  I 

She  turns  blind  for  an  instant — blind,  faint,  sick.  All  her 
strength  seems  to  go.  She  gives  an  involuntary  gasp,  her  eyes 
dilate,  she  grasps  a  chair-back  for  support  ;  then  she  sees  the 
exultant  faces  of  her  enemies,  and  she  rallies  to  the  strife  again. 
No,  no,  no  !  they  shall  not  exult  in  her  fall. 

Fred  Carew  advances  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  nearest  the 
dooi.  Cyrilla  stands  directly  opposite.  He  looks  at  her,  but 
her  eyes  are  upon  her  aunt.  He  nods  coldly  to  Mrs.  Fogarty, 
and  addresses  himself  to  the  mistre§§  of  the  house  : 


"GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART."  243 

"  You  sent  for  me,  madam  ?  "  he  briefly  says. 

She  looks  at  him — a  strange  expression  on  her  face.  "I  am 
going  to  see  a  ghost,"  she  had  said  to  her  niece.  Surely  it  is 
like  seeing  a  ghost  to  see  another  Frederick  Carew,  with  the 
same  blood  in  his  veins,  the  same  look  in  his  eyes,  at  her  bed- 
side after  tive-and-twenty  years. 

The  old  smoldering  wrong  seems  to  blaze  up  afresh  from  its 
vhite  ashes  !  As  in  that  distant  time  she  hated  and  cursed  the 
father,  so  now  she  has  it  in  her  heart  to  hate  and  curse  the  son. 

"  I  sent  for  you,  sir,"  she  answers,  "  to  settle  a  very  vexed 
question.  A  simple  yes  or  no  will  do  it,  for  you  are  an  officer 
and  a  gentleman,  with  noble  blood  in  your  veins — the  blood  of 
the  Carews — incapable  of  deceiving  a  poor,  weak  woman."  Oh  ! 
the  sneer  of  almost  diabolical  malice  in  eyes  and  voice  as  she 
says  it !  Fred's  face  flushes.  "  It  is  only  this — is  my  niece, 
Cyrilla  Hendrick,  your  wife,  or  not  ?" 

He  looks  across  the  bed  and  their  eyes  meet. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Fred,  say  no  ! "  her  eager,  imploring 
glance  says.  "  Tell  the  truth,  Cyrilla !  "  his  command,  im- 
periously. "  For  my  sake  !  "  their  softening  look  adds. 

"Speak  !"  Miss  Dormer  cries  fiercely  ;  "don't  look  at  her 
Speak  for  yourself  !  is  she  your  wife  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  decline  to  answer  so  extraordinary  a  question,"  Fred 
says,  coolly.  "  If  I  had  known  your  object  in  sending  for  me, 
Miss  Dormer,  I  would  not  have  come." 

"  Do  you  deny  that  she  is  ?  " 

"  I  deny  nothing — I  affirm  nothing.  Whatever  Miss  Hen- 
drick says,  that  I  admit." 

"She  is  Miss  Hendrick,  then — you  own  that?" 

"  I  have  never  heard  her  called  anything  else,  madam." 

"  Will  you  speak,  or  will  you  not !  "  cries  Miss  Dormer,  in  a 
fury.  "  Are  you  my  niece's  husband  ?  Did  she  live  with  you 
in  New  York  as  your  wife  ?  " 

He  folds  his  arms  and  stands  silent. 

"And  silence  gives  assent,"  says  the  spiteful  voice  of  Miss 
Jones. 

"  Speak,  sir  !  "  goes  on  Miss  Dormer.  "  I  am  a  dying  wo- 
man, and  I  demand  to  know  the  truth.  What  is  my  niece  to 
you  ?  " 

"  My  very  dear  friend.     More,  I  positively  refuse  to  say." 

"Cyrilla!"  the  old  woman  almost  shrieks,  "he  will  not 
speak — you  shall.  Come  nearer  and  repeat  what  you  have 
already  said.  Is  that  man  your  husband  or  not  1 " 


2 44  "  GOOD-BYE,  S WEE THEAR T. ' ' 

The  agony  of  that  moment  !  There  are  drops  on  Cyrilla's 
face — cold,  clammy  drops.  A  rope  seems  to  be  tightening 
around  her  neck  and  strangling  her.  Across  the  bed,  Fred  Ca- 
rew's  eyes  are  sternly  fixed  on  her  changing  face. 

"  Speak  ! "  her  aunt  screams,  mad  and  furious. 

"  He— is  not!" 

"  You  never  lived  with  him  in  New  York  as  his  wife  ?  " 

"  I  did  not." 

"  You  are  not  married  to  him,  and  never  will  be." 

"  I  am  not,  and  never  will  be." 

"  Swear  it !  "  cries  the  sick  woman,  frenzied  with  excitement. 
"  Your  word  will  not  suffice.  I  must  have  your  oath."  She 
flings  open  the  Bible  at  the  Gospels.  "  Lay  your  hand  on  this 
book  and  say  after  me  !  I  swear  that  Frederic  Carew  is  not 
my  husband,  and  never  will  be,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

She  lays  her  hand  on  the  book — blindly,  for  she  cannot  see. 
A  red  mist  fills  the  room  and  blots  out  every  face  except  one 
— the  one  across  the  bed,  that  looks  like  the  face  of  an 
avenging  angel — the  face  of  the  husband  she  loves  and  is  for- 
swearing. 

"  Speak  the  words,"  cried  Miss  Dormer :  "  '  I  swear  that 
Frederic  Carew  is  not  my  husband ' — begin  !  " 

Oh  !  the  terrific,  ghastly  silence.  The  two  women  have 
arisen,  and  stand  pale  and  breathless. 

"  I  swear — that  Frederic  Carew — is " 

Her  face,  the  livid  hue  of  death  a  second  before,  turns  of 
a  deep  dull  red,  the  cord  around  her  throat,  strangling  her, 
all  at  once  loosens,  and  she  falls  headlong  across  her  aunt's 
bed. 

"  She  has  been  saved  from  perjury,"  says  the  sombre  voice 
of  Miss  Jones. 

Fred  Carew  is  by  her  side  as  she  falls.  He  lifts  her  in  his 
arms  and  carries  her  out  of  the  room.  Old  Joanna  is  without 
in  the  passage,  and  recoils  at  the  sight  of  the  young  man's  stony 
face  and  the  burden  he  bears. 

"  Take  her  up  to  her  room,"  she  says,  and  leads  the  way. 
'•'  Poor  dear,  has  she  fainted  ?  " 

Cyrilla  has  not  fainted — vertigo,  congestion,  whatever  it  may 
be.  She  is  conscious  of  who  carries  her  ;  knows  when  she  is 
laid  upon  her  bed,  in  a  dull,  painless,  far-off  way.  She  tries  to 
open  her  eyes ;  the  eyelids  only  flutter,  but  he  sees  it.  His 
face  touches  hers  for  a  second. 

f'  Gogd-bye— good-bye  ! "  he  says. 


'•  OH!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER."          245 

Then,  still  in  that  dulled,  far-off  way,  she  knows  that  he  has 
left  her ;  she  hears  the  house  door  open  and  shut,  and  feels, 
through  all  her  torpor,  that  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  his  life, 
Fred  Carew  has  crossed  Miss  Dormer's  threshold. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  OH  !    THE   LEES   ARE    BITTER,    BITTER." 

'HE  lies  there  for  the  remainder  of  the  day,  while  the 
rose  light  of  the  sunset  fades  out,  and  the  pale  prim- 
rose afterglow  comes.  The  moon  rises,  and  her 
pearly  lustre  mingles  in  the  sky  with  the  pink  flush  of 
that  May  sunset.  The  house  door  has  opened  and  shut  again 
and  again,  while  she  lies  mutely  there,  and  she  knows  that  her 
triumphant  enemies  have  gone,  that  Dr.  Foster  has  come,  for 
it  is  his  heavy  step  thai  ascends  the  stairs  now. 

A  torpor,  that  is  without  pain  or  tears,  or  sorrow  or  remorse 
fills  her,  and  holds  her  spell  bound  in  her  bed.  Her  large, 
black,  melancholy  eyes  are  wide  open,  and  stare  blankly  out  of 
the  curtainless  windows,  as  she  lies,  her  hands  clasped  over  her 
head.  She  can  see  the  myriad  city  roofs,  sparkling  in  the  crys- 
tal light  of  moonrise  and  sunset,  a  dozen  shining  crosses  pierc- 
ing the  blue  heaven,  which  she  feels  she  will  never  see.  As  she 
gazes  at  them  dreamily,  the  bell  of  a  large  building  near 
clashes  out  in  the  quivering  opal  air.  It  is  a  convent,  and  the 
bell  is  the  bell  of  the  evening  Angelus.  How  odd  to  think  that 
there  are  people  about  her,  scores  and  scores  of  people  who 
can  kneel  before  consecrated  altars,  with  no  black  and  deadly 
sins  to  stand  between  them  and  the  holy  and  awful  face  of  God. 

And  now  it  is  night.  All  the  little  pink  clouds  have  faded  in 
pallid  gray,  and  the  clustering  stars  shine  down  upon  Montreal. 
Ho\v  still  the  house  is.  Are  they  both  dead — her  aunt  and 
Joanna  ?  No  !  While  she  thinks  it,  Joanna  comes  in  with  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  slice  of  toast. 

"  Better,  miss  ? "  says  the  old  servant,  interrogatively. 
"  Would  have  come  sooner.  Could  not  get  away.  Waiting  on 
her.  Very  low  to-night.  Eat  something,  miss." 

Cyrilla  drinks  her  tea  thirstily,  and  makes  an  effort  to  get 


246         "Off!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER" 

up.  It  is  a  failure — there  is  something  the  matter  with  hei 
head  ;  she  falls  heavily  back. 

.  "  Lie  still,  miss.  You  look  gashly.  I'll  stay  with  her  to- 
night. Have  a  sleep,  miss."  And  old  Joanna  takes  her  tray 
and  untouched  toast,  and  goes. 

So  she  lies.  Presently  the  high  bright  stars  and  the  twinkling 
city  lights  fade  away  in  darkness.  There  is  a  long  blank — then 
all  at  once,  without  sound  of  any  kind,  she  awakes  and  sits  up 
in  bed,  her  heart  beating  fast.  Some  one  is  in  her  room,  and 
a  light  is  burning.  It  is  old  Joanna,  standing  at  her  bedside, 
shading  a  lamp  with  her  hand. 

"  She's  gone,  miss,"  says  Joanna. 

"Gone!"   Cyi  ilia  repeats  vaguely  ;   "who?     Gone  where?" 

"  Yes — where  ? — I'd  like  to  know,"  says  Joanna,  staring 
blankly  for  information  at  the  papered  wall.  "  The  Lord 
knows,  /  don't.  But  she's  gone.  Went  half-an-hour  ago. 
Four  o'clock  to  a  minute.  The  cocks  begun  to  crow,  and  she 
riz  right  up  with  a  screech,  and  went." 

The  girl  sits  staring  at  her — her  great  black  eyes  looking 
wild  and  spectral  in  her  white  face. 

"All  night  long  she  talked,"  pursued  Joanna:  "talked — 
talked  stiddy.  It  was  wearin'  to  listen.  About  England  and 
the  time  when  she  was  young,  I  reckon,  and  Frederic  Carew 
and  Donald  McKelpin,  and  her  wild  brother  Jack.  That's 
what  she  called  him.  And  she  talked  it  out  crazy  and  loud 
like,  else  I  wouldn't  a-heerd  her.  It  was  awful  wearin'.  Then 
she  was  quiet.  Kind  o'  dozin'.  I  was  dozin'  myself.  For  it 
was  very  wearin'.  Then  the  cocks  crowed  for  mornin'.  Then 
she  riz  right  up  with  that  screech,  and  went.  Will  you  come, 
miss?  It's  wearin'  there  alone." 

Cyrilla  rises  and  goes.  The  house  is  so  still — so  deathly  still 
that  their  footsteps  echo  loudly  as  they  walk.  The  shaded  lamp 
still  burns  in  Miss  Dormer's  room,  and  on  the  bed,  stark  and 
rigid,  with  wide-open,  glassy  eyes  and  ghastly  fallen  jaw,  Miss 
Dormer  lies — the  "rich  Miss  Dormer."  Lonely,  loveless  and 
unholy  has  been  her  life — lonely,  loveless  and  unholy  has  been 
her  death.  Even  old  Joanna,  not  easily  moved,  turns  away  with 
a  creeping  feeling  of  repulsion  from  this  grisly  sight. 

"  She  won't  make  a  handsome  corpse,  poor  thing,"  remarks 
Joanna,  holding  up  the  lamp,  and  eyeing  her  critically,  as  if  she 
had  been  waxwork  ;  "  but  I  suppose  we  must  lay  her  out.  We 
must  shut  her  eyes  and  put  pennies  on  'em.  And  wash  her. 
And  make  a  shroud,  and  straight  her  out.  And " 


"  OH!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER."         247 

"I  cannot  !"  the  girl  cries  out,  turning  away,  deathly  sick, 
"it  would  kill  me  to  touch  her.  You  must  go  for  some  one  or 
else  wait  until  some  one  comes." 

Kut  Joanna  does  neither.  Dead  or  alive,  she  is  not  afraid  of 
Miss  Dormer.  She  goes  phlegmatically  to  work  and  does  all 
herself,  while  Cyrilla  sits  or  rather  crouches  in  a  corner,  her 
folded  arms  resting  on  the  window-sill,  her  face  lying  upon  them. 
She  has  stood  face  to  face  with  death  before,  calmly  and  un- 
moved, but  never — oh  !  never  with  death  like  this.  So — when 
morning,  lovely,  sunlit,  Heaven-sent,  shines  down  upon  the  world 
again,  it  finds  them.  The  sun  floods  the  chamber  with  its  glad 
light,  until  old  Joanna  impatiently  jerks  down  the  blinds  in  its 
face.  On  her  bed  Miss  Dormer  lies,  her  ghastly  eyeballs 
crowned  with  coin  of  the  realm,  her  skeleton  arms  stretched 
stiffly  out  by  her  sides,  but  the  mouth  is  still  open,  the  jaw  still 
fallen,  in  spite  of  the  white  bandage. 

"  I  knowed  it,"  Joannna  observes,  with  a  depressed  shake  of 
her  ancient  head,  stepping  back  to  eye  her  work.  "  You  can't 
make  a  handsome  corpse  of  her,  let  you  do  ever  so." 

Then  her  eye  wanders  from  the  dead  aunt  to  the  living  niece. 

"You  ain't  no  use  here,  miss,"  she  says,  with  asperity. 
"  You'd  better  come  down  with  me  to  the  kitchen,  and  I'll  make 
you  a  cup  'o  strong  tea.  It's  been  a  wearin'  night." 

They  descend,  and  the  strong  tea  is  made  and  drank,  and 
does  Cyrilla  good.  Joanna  bustles  about  her  morning  duties. 
At  nine  o'clock  Doctor  Foster  knocks,  is  admitted,  hears  what 
he  expects  to  hear,  that  his  work  is  finished,  and  his  patient  has 
taken  a  journey,  in  the  darkness  of  the  early  dawn,  from  this 
world  to  the  next. 

After  that,  many  people,  it  seems  to  Cyrilla,  come  and  go- — 
come  to  look  at  the  rich  Miss  Dormer  in  death,  who  would 
never  have  crossed  that  doorway  in 'her  life.  Mrs.  Fogarty  and 
Miss  Jones  come  with  the  rest.  She  sees  them  from  her  bed- 
room window,  but  she  is  conscious  of  no  feeling  of  anger  or 
resentment  at  the  sight.  All  that  is  dead  and  gone — gone  for- 
ever— with  hope,  and  love,  and  ambition,  and  daring,  and  all 
the  plans  of  her  life.  Only  a  day  or  two  ago — a  day  or  two  !  it 
seems  a  lifetime  !  She  keeps  her  room  through  it  all,  stealing 
down  to  the  kitchen  now  and  then,  through  the  stajtling  still- 
ness of  the  house,  for  the  strong  tea  or  coffee  on  which  she 
lives.  No  one  sees  her,  though  dozens  come  with  no  other  ob- 
ject. For  the  story — her  story — is  over  the  city.  Mysterious 
hints  of  it  are  thrown  out  in  the  morning  papers ;  it  is  the  chit- 


248         "  OH!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER^ 

chat  of  barrack  and  boudoir,  mess-table  and  drawing-room 
Nothing  quite  so  romantic  and  exciting  has  ever  before  hap- 
pened in  their  midst,  and  Mrs.  Fogarty  and  Miss  Jones  awake 
and  find  themselves  famous.  The  heroine  keeps  herself  shut 
up,  ashamed  of  herself,  very  properly ;  the  hero  is  invisible. 
too.  And  how  has  Miss  Dormer  left  her  money  !  That  is  the 
question  that  most  of  all  exercises  their  exercised  minds. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  comes,  and  Miss  Dormer,  in  her  cof- 
Jin,  goes  out,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  through  her  own  front 
gates.  It  is  quite  a  lengthy  and  eminently  respectable  array  of 
carriages  that  follow  the  wealthy  ladv  to  her  grave. 

O  J  J    ^  O 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life.  He  that  believeth  in 
Me,  although  he  be  dead,  shall  live  ;  and  every  one  that  liveth 
and  believeth  in  Me,  shall  not  die  forever  !  "  says  the  reverend 
gentleman  in  the  white  bands  who  officiates,  and  they  lower 
Miss  Dormer  into  her  last  narrow  home,  and  the  clay  goes  rat- 
tling down  on  the  coffin  lid.  It  is  a  wet  and  windy  day  ;  the 
cemetery  looks  desolation  itself — a  damp  and  uncomfortable 
place  in  which  to  take  up  one's  abode.  The  sexton  flings 
in  the  clods,  and  no  tears  are  shed  and  no  sorrow  is  felt. 
The}'  are  glad  to  get  back  to  the  shelter  of  their  carriages,  and 
men  laugh  and  crack  jokes  about  Fred  Carew  and  the  dead 
woman's  niece  all  the  way  home. 

The  dead  woman's  niece  has  not  gone  to  the  funeral.  Old 
Joanna  alone  represents  the  household.  The  doctor  is  there, 
and  the  lawyer  is  there,  for  they  expect  ample  fees  for  their 
pains  presently ;  but  the  dead  woman's  niece  expects  nothing. 
She  sits  in  her  lonely  room  ;  a  lost  feeling  that  something  has 
gone  wrong  with  her  head  ever  since  that  cord  snapped  around 
her  throat  and  she  fell  across  her  aunt's  bed — her  principal 
feeling.  She  puts  her  hand  to  it  in  a  forlorn,  weary  way,  won- 
dering why  it  feels  so  oddly  hollow,  as  if  the  thinking  machine 
inside  had  run  down,  and  the  key  was  lost.  She  suffers  no 
acute  pain,  either  mental  or  physical,  only  she  seems  to  have 
lost  the  power  both  to  sleep  or  eat,  and  does  not  feel  the  need 
of  either.  There  is  a  tiresome,  ceaseless  sense  of  aching  at 
her  heart,  too ;  a  blunted  sense  of  misery  and  loss,  that  never 
for  a  moment  leaves  her.  She  plucks  at  it  sometimes,  as  if  to 
pluck  away  the  intolerable  gnawing  ;  but  it  goes  on  and  on, 
like  the  endless  torture  of  a  lost  soul. 

M  r.  Pompet,  the  lawyer,  has  come  to  look  after  bonds  and 
mortgages,  receipts,  bank  accounts  and  papers  of  value,  to  re- 
move them  to  his  own  safe,  until  the  arrival  of  Mr.  McKelpin, 


"OH!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER."         249 

He  is  engaged  in  this  work  when  the  door  of  the  room  opens, 
and  a  figure  comes  gliding  toward  him — a  figure  with  a  face  so 
white,  eyes  so  black,  and  weird,  and  large  ;  that,  albeit  not  a 
nervous  man,  Mr.  Pompet  drops  the  deed  he  holds  and  starts 
up  with  a  stifled  ejaculation.  It  is  the  dead  woman's  niece. 

"  Don't  let  me  disturb  you."  The  weird,  dark  eyes  look  at 
him — the  faint,  tired  voice  speaks.  "  I  will  only  remain  a  mo- 
ment. You  are  the  lawyer  who  made  Miss  Dormer's  will  ?  " 

"Yes,  miss — I  mean  Mrs. "  Here  Mr.  Pompet  comes 

to  a  dead  lock.  He  has  heard  so  much  about  Miss  Hendrick 
being  Mrs.  Carew,  that  he  is  at  a  loss  how  to  address  her. 

"  1  am  Miss  Dormer's  niece.  Will  you  tell  me  how  she  has 
left  her  money  ?  "  He  looked  at  her  compassionately — how 
wretchedly  ill  the  poor  girl  is  looking,  he  thinks.  A  handsome 
girl,  too,  in  spite  of  her  pallor  and  wild-looking  eyes — Lieutenant 
Carew  has  had  taste.  "  Has  Mr.  McKelpin  got  it  all?  Don't 
be  afraid  to  tell  me,  or — am  I  remembered  ?  " 

"  Except  a  small  bequest  of  one  hundred  dollars  to  her  ser- 
vant Joanna,  Mr.  McKelpin  has  it  all,"  answers  the  lawyer. 

"  I  am  not  even  mentioned  in  her  will  ?  " 

Again  Mr.  Pompet  is  silent — again  he  looks  embarrassed 
and  compassionate. 

"  Please  answer,"  she  says,  wearily.    •'  I  would  rather  know." 

"  You  are  mentioned  then,  but  only  to  say  she  has  disin- 
herited you  for  your  falsehood  and  deceit,  and  to  warn  Mr. 
McKelpin  in  no  case  to  aid  or  help  you." 

She  bends  her  head  with  the  old  graceful  motion. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says,  and  goes. 

So  it  is  over,  and  she  knows  the  worst — it  is  only  what  she 
has  known  all  along,  the  lawyer  has  but  made  assurance  doubly 
sure.  In  striving  to  keep  love  and  fortune  she  has  lost  both. 
She  has  lost  all,  good  name,  lover,  home,  wealth,  everything  she 
has  held  most  dear.  And  her  own  falsehood  has  done  it  all. 
If  she  had  been  honest  and  dealt  fairly  by  her  am*,  she  would 
at  least,  as  Donald  McKelpin's  wife,  have  been  a  rich  woman. 
If  she  had  been  honest  and  dealt  fairly  by  Fred  Carew,  she 
'would  have  had  his  love  and  presence  to  comfort  her.  But 
she  has  lost  both.  Truly,  even  for  the  children  of  this  world, 
honesty  is  the  best  policy — truly,  also,  the  way  of  the  transgres- 
sor is  hard,  and  the  wages  of  sin  is  death. 

Another  night  falls  upon  the  lonesome,  dark  old  house,  an- 
other ghostly,  hushed  sleepless  night.  She  lies  through  the 
long,  black,  dragging  hours,  and  listens  to  the  raiu  pattering 
n* 


350         "OH!    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER." 

on  the  glass,  and  the  wind  blowing  about  the  gables.  "  Blessed 
is  the  corpse  that  the  rain  rains  on,"  says  the  children's  rhyme. 
The  rain  is  beating  on  Aunt  Dormer's  grave — is  Aunt  Dormei 
blessed  ?  she  wonders. 

Again  it  is  morning — another  gray,  wet  morning.  In  the 
early  dawn,  sleep  reluctantly  comes  to  her,  and  with  sleep 
dreams.  The  sleeping  is  more  cruel  than  the  waking,  for  she 
dreams  of  her  husband.  She  is  back  with  him  in  New  York, 
living  over  again  that  one  bright  honeymoon  week — that  week 
that  will  stand  out  from  all  the  other  weeks  of  her  life.  With  a 
a  smile  on  her  lips  she  awakens,  and  then  a  moment  after  there 
is  a  desolate  cry.  For  the  truth  has  come  back  to  her  with  a 
pain  sharper  than  the  pain  of  death.  She  has  heard  nothing  of 
him  or  from  him  since  their  parting — she  never  will  again — 
that  she  knows.  That  whispered  'good-bye'  was  for  all  time. 
Why  should  she  expect  otherwise  ?  In  the  face  of  all  she 
denied  him — forswore  him.  What  could  he  have  left  but  scorn 
and  contempt  for  her.  It  never  occurs  to  her  to  think  of  see- 
ing or  hearing  from  him  again.  Her  sentence  is  passed — its 
justice  she  does  not  dispute. 

That  forenoon  brings  a  telegram  from  Mr.  McKelpin.  He 
has  landed  at  Quebec — by  to-morrow  he  will  be  in  Montreal. 
Her  brief  respite  is  at  an  end — she  must  be  up  and  doing  now. 
She  has  no  right  in  Donald  McKelpin's  house.  He  is  an 
Honest  man,  and  she  has  betrayed  him.  She  has  no  intention 
of  allowing  him  to  find  her  here — by  to-morrow  morning's 
early  train  she  will  go. 

She  will  go — but  where  ?  In  all  the  world  she  has  neither 
home  nor  friends.  She  thinks  of  Sydney,  good  little,  loyal 
Sydney — but  Sydney  is  far  away.  Still  she  has  her  plans.  In 
the  long  watches  of  the  night  she  has  made  up  her  mind  to  go 
to  New  York.  Why,  she  does  not  know  ;  only  in  a  great  city  it 
is  so  easy  to  lose  one's  self,  to  die  to  all  one  has  ever  known. 
Perhaps  there  she  will  get  rid  of  this  gnawing,  miserable  pain  at 
her  heart ;  perhaps  there,  her  wandering  brain  may  feel  as  it 
used.  And  she  has  been  so  happy  there — so  happy.  She  will  go 
back,  and  walk  in  the  places  where  they  used  to  walk  together, 
as  Eve  may  have  come  back  and  looked  over  the  closed 
gates  of  Eden.  And  then — well,  then,  perhaps,  there  may  be 
mercy  for  her,  and  she  may  die.  She  is  of  no  use  in  the  world, 
of  no  use  to  any  one — she  is  a  wicked  wretch,  of  w'lom  the 
earth  will  be  well  rid — "a  sinner  viler  than  them  all."  People 
tLc  eve-y  day,,  every  hour  ;  why  sliould  not  sl 


"O//7    THE  LEES  ARE  BITTER,  BITTER."         25? 

To-morrow  morning  comes.  She  has  packed  her  trunk  and 
her  little  hand-bag.  Old  Joanna  fetches  her  a  hack,  and  she 
puts  on  her  hat,  and  holds  out  her  hand  and  says  good-bye  to  the 
old  creature  mechanically,  and  tells  her  (when  asked)  that  she 
is  going  to  New  York.  She  never  once  lifts  her  heavy  eyes  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  gloomy  red  brick  house  as  the  hack  bears 
her  away. 

She  has  some  money — not  much,  but  enough.  Since  their 
marriage  Fred  has  made  her  his  banker.  It  will  take  her  to 
New  York — after  that,  it  doesn't  matter  what  happens. 

She  is  in  the  cars.  She  lays  her  head  with  a  tired-out  feeling 
against  the  window,  and  closes  her  eyes.  They  are  flying  along 
in  the  warm  June  morning,  and  thoughts  of  the  last  time  she 
made  this  journey,  not  yet  a  month  ago,  drift  vaguely  through 
her  mind.  She  never  looks  up  or  out.  Her  forehead  is  rest- 
ing against  the  cool  glass — it  feels  to  her  like  a  friendly  hand  ; 
and  so,  dead  to  all  about  her.  dead  to  herself,  to  everything  that 
makes  life  de?r,  Cyrilla  drifts  out  of  the  old  life — whither,  she 
neither  knows  nor  cares. 


PART    SECOND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SYDNEY. 

"  Yet,  is  this  girl  I  sing  in  naught  uncommon, 

And  very  far  from  angel,  yet  I  trow 
Her  faults,  her  sweetnesses  are  purely  human, 
And  she's  more  lovable  as  simple  woman 

Than  any  one  diviner  that  I  know." 

jjWO  o'clock  of  a  cold  November  afternoon,  a  shrill 
rising  wind,  whistling  up  and  down  the  city  streets, 
stripping  the  gaunt  brown  trees  of  their  last  sere  and 
yellow  leaf,  and  making  little  ripples  all  along  the  steely 
pools  of  water,  which  the  morning's  rain  has  left.  The  rain  has 
ceased  now,  but  a  gray,  fast-drifting  sky  yet  lowers  over  New 
York,  ominously  suggestive  of  the  first  wintry  fall  of  snow. 
Omnibuses  rattle  up  and  omnibuses  rattle  down,  private  car- 
riages, all  aglitter  of  black  varnish,  prancing  horses  and  liveried 
coachmen  whirl  up  park-ward.  A  few  ladies  trip  past  in  the 
direction  of  Broadway,  a  few  beggar  children  creep  around  the 
areas.  That  is  the  street  scene,  the  tall  young  lady  with  the 
fair  hair,  mourning  dress,  sits  and  looks  at  rather  listlessly,  con- 
sidering that  more  than  four  years  have  elapsed  since  these 
blue-gray  eyes  looked  upon  it  before.  The  young  lady  is 
Miss  Sydney  Owenson,  newly  returned  from  a  five  years'  so- 
journ abroad,  and  domiciled  with  her  late  mothers  cousin,  Mrs. 
Macgregor,  of  Madison  Avenue. 

Her  mother,  Mrs.  Owenson,  is  dead.  Except  these  cousins, 
Sydney  Owenson,  orphan  and  heiress,  stands  quite  alone  in  the 
world.  Four  years  ago,  one  sunny  May  day,  Captain  Owen- 
son's  widow  and  only  child  left  New  York  for  Havre.  Four 
quiet  pleasant  years  followed  for  poor  badgered  Aunt  Char; 
more  quiet  and  pleasant  than  Aunt  Char  would  ever  have 
owned  even  to  herself,  with  no  terrible  marital  voice  to  thunder 


SYDNEY.  253 

at  her  for  the  thousand  and  one  foolish  little  deeds  and  speeches 
of  every  day.  There  was  one  long  balmy  winter  in  Florence, 
another  in  Rome,  where  the  churches  and  picture  galleries,  the 
delights  of  her  daughter's  heart,  made  her  head  ache,  and  where 
St.  Peter's  with  its  splendors  and  its  vastness,  and  its  majestic 
music  and  wondrously  beautiful  ceremonies,  nearly  tired  her 
to  death.  Physically,  mentally  and  morally,  Aunt  Char  was 
weak,  and  growing  weaker  every  day.  For  Sydney,  that  Roman 
winter  was  one  long  dream  of  delight ;  it  seemed  to  her  mother 
she  literally  lived  in  the  churches  and  picture  galleries.  The 
summers  were  spent  rambling  in  a  vagabond  sort  of  way  through 
Switzerland,  Germany  and  Bavaria.  The  fourth  winter  was 
spent  in  Paris,  and  in  that  city  Aunt  Char's  feeble  hold  on  life 
grew  weaker  and  weaker ;  and  one  bleak  spring  morning 
•Sydney  awoke,  to  find  herself  an  orphan  indeed,  and  that  weak 
and  gentle  mother,  lying  with  folded  hands  and  placid  face  and 
life's  labor  done. 

Four  years  before,  on  that  December  morning  when  she 
knelt  down  by  her  dead  father's  bed,  the  girl  had  been  a  child, 
a  very  child  in  heart  and  knowledge,  in  thought  and  feeling.  But 
with  that  day  her  childhood  seemed  to  cease,  and  womanhood 
to  dawn.  She  had  loved  her  feeble  little  mother  very  dearly, 
but  never — no  never — as  she  had  loved  her  father.  In  those 
years  of  aimless  wandering  hers  had  been  the  guiding  spirit,  hers 
the  ruling  voice.  To  rule  was  not  in  Mrs.  Ovvenson's  nature — 
all  her  life  she  had  been  meekly  under  orders  until  its  very  last 
day.  Strong,  self-reliant,  fearless,  she  looked  upon  her  slim, 
stately  young  daughter  with  wonder  and  admiration,  and  leaned 
upon  her  from  the  first  day  of  her  husband's  death.  That  by- 
gone tragedy  had  left  its  impress  upon  the  girl  for  life.  Grave 
beyond  her  years,  with  a  gravity  most  people  found  very  charm- 
ing, thoughttul,  but  very  gentle  and  sweet,. her  seriousness  was 
an  added  witchery.  She  had  shot  up  in  these  years,  supple  and 
tall,  healthful  and  handsome,  with  eyes  as  bright  as  these  south- 
ern skies  at  which  they  gazed,  a  complexion  not  pale,  and  yet 
colorless,  and  a  fearless  frankness  of  manner,  that  her  unfettered, 
wandering  life  could  not  fail  to  give.  In  her  heart,  her  whole 
/ife  long,  she  would  mourn  for  the  father  she  had  so  dearly 
loved,  the  brother  who  was  to  have  been  her  husband  ;  but  her 
face  was  bright  as  the  sunshine  itself,  and  the  handsome  Amer- 
ican heiress  did  not  reach  her  twenty-first  birthday,  be  very  sure, 
without  more  than  one  manly  heart  and  hand  (more  or  less 
short  of  ready  money)  being  laid  at  her  shrine,  and  just  at  pre»- 


254  SYDNEY. 

ent  it  was  the  bus' ness  of  the  Macgregor  family  to  discover 
vvhethe;  their  fair  and  rich  relative  had  brought  hei  heart  home 
with  her,  or  had  left  that  useful  organ  behind  in  ft  reign  parts. 
She  had  been  with  them  three  weeks  now,  and  the  discovery 
had  not  been  satisfactorily  made  yet,  and  Dick  Macgregor,  son 
of  the  house  and  graduate  of  West  Point,  was  growing  seriously 
anxious  on  the  subject. 

Miss  Owenson  had  remained  a  full  year  abroad  after  her 
mother's  death  with  some  English  friends,  whose  acquaintance 
she  had  made  in  Paris.  These  friends  were  Sir  Harry  Leonard 
and  his  sister,  a  maiden  lady  of  forty.  With  the  sister,  Miss 
Owenson  frankly  owned  to  having  fallen  in  love  at  sight — the 
brother,  Mrs.  Owenson  had  more  than  hinted  in  her  letters,  had 
done  precisely  the  same  with  Sydney.  Sir  Harry  was  a  man  of 
thirty,  not  bad-looking,  and  rich  enough  in  Cornish  tin  mines  to 
put  the  possibility  of  mercenary  motives  entirely  out  of  the 
question.  Miss  Owenson  had  spent  many  months  following 
her  mother's  death  with  Miss  Leonard,  and  now  the  question 
arose,  was  Sydney  the  fiance  of  Sir  Harry  Leonard?  Dick 
Macgregor,  his  mother,  and  sister  revolved  this  question  in  all 
its  bearings  and  revolved  in  vain.  Sydney  was  serenely  silent 
on  all  these  tender  matters,  and  there  was  a  quiet  dignity  about 
her  that  forbade  questions.  Dick's  attentions  she  took  with  a 
cousinly  indifference  and  good  nature  that  was  exasperating  to 
a  degree. 

"  It  seems  a  pity  to  let  the  fortune — a  million,  if  a  dollar — 
go  out  of  the  family,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor,  knitting  her 
brows,  until  they  made  a  black  archway  over  her  lofty  Roman 
nose. 

"  If  she  were  to  marry  Dick,  I  needn't  sell  myself  to  that  fat 
beast,  old  Vanclerdonck,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  con- 
siderable asperity.  "  One  of  us  must  marry  money  or  starve. 
Of  course  I  will  be  the  sacrifice,  though.  Old  Vanderdonck  is 
as  fond  of  me  as  it  is  possible  for  him  to  be  of  anything,  except 
his  bank  account,  and  Sydney  is  about  as  much  in  love  with 
Dick  as  she  is  with  your  new  black  coachman,  mamma.  Who 
can  wonder,  though,  after  the  men  she  has  associated  with 
abroad,  and  it's  not  your  fault,  I  suppose,  my  poor  Dick,  that 
you've  neither  brains  nor  beauty." 

"She's  engaged  to  the  baronet — that's  where  the  trouble  is," 
responds  Dick,  with  a  gloomy  glance  at  his  sister,  "or  that 
other  fellow — what's  his  name,  the  German  that  wanted  tc 
marry  her  ?  American  girls  are  all  tarred  with  the  same  stick — 


SYDNEY.  255 

they'd  marry  the  deuce  himself,  horns  and  hoof,  if  he  only  had  a 
title." 

Of  this  family  conclave,  of  the  plots  and  plans  in  regard  to 
her,  Miss  Owenson  was  most  supremely  unconscious.  Those 
bright  gray  eyes  of  hers  would  have  opened  very  wide  indeed  if 
any  one  had  told  her  Dick  Macgregor  wanted  to  marry  her — 
not  only  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 
She  would  stay  with  them  for  this  winter,  she  thought,  and  afte? 
that — but  the  "after  that"  was  not  quite  clear  in  Sydney's 
mind.  Youth,  beauty,  many  friends,  two  or  three  lovers,  and 
great  wealth  are  hers ;  but  as  she  sits  here  to  clay  and  looks  out 
at  the  bleak,  wind-blown  street,  she  feels  lonely  and  sad  enough. 
The  Macgregors  are  relatives,  and  are  very  good  to  her  after 
their  light,  but  their  house  is  not  home,  nor  even  like  the  Cor- 
nish home  that  was  hers  so  lately,  and  oh  !  so  unutterably  un- 
like the  dear  old  home  at  Wychcliffe  forever  lost  now.  This 
day  is  an  anniversary — this  day  five  years  ago  was  the  day  be- 
fore her  wedding — this  day  five  years  ago,  and  just  at  this  hour, 
she  and  Bertie  Vaughan  stood  looking  out  at  the  whirling  snow. 
Again  she  sees  him  lying  back  in  his  chair,  that  moody  look  on 
his  blonde,  boyish  face  ;  again  she  hears  him  speak,  "  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ?  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death, 
and  ail  that,  you  know."  His  words  had  been  prophetic.  Ah  ! 
poor  Bertie.  Looking  back  now,  with  the  knowledge  and  ex- 
perience of  five  years  added  upon  her,  Sydney  knows  that  as 
Bertie's  wife  she  would  have  been  a  supremely  wretched  woman. 
Looking  back  now,  she  knows  he  was  weak  and  unstable  as 
water — that  she  would  have  outgrown  him,  and  that  they  would 
have  wearied  to  death  of  the  tie  that  bound  them.  She  knows 
that  for  herself  and  her  own  happiness  it  is  infinitely  better  as 
it  is.  Yet  none  the  less  does  she  regret  him,  none  the  less  does 
she  mourn  his  tragic  end.  The  mystery  of  that  night's  dis- 
appearance is  as  dense  a  mystery  as  ever ;  nothing  has  ever 
come  to  light — nothing,  it  is  probable  now,  ever  will.  Whether 
a  murder  was  done,  whether  an  accident  befell  him,  may  never 
be  discovered.  Of  late  years  Sydney  has  inclined  to  the  latter 
belief.  Bertie  had  no  enemies — not  one — and  just  there  an  ac- 
cident might  very  easily  befall.  A  slip,  a  false  step,  and  the 
rising  tide  would  speedily  bear  away  all  traces. 

She  rises  from  her  reverie  with  a  sigh  to  the  memory  of  those 
pleasant  by-gone  days,  and  goes  in  search  of  a  book.  The 
/oom  she  is  in  is  called  a  library,  although  one  small  bookcase 
rolds  all  its  lila'aUuc— the  Alac^rqjors  arc  uyl  a  reading  ian> 


256  SYDNEY. 

ily.  Pictures  there  are  in  profusion — chromos  and  engravings 
mostly  ;  the  carpet  is  soft  and  rich,  the  curtains  are  elegant  and 
costly,  the  furniture  is  blue  silk  rep,  and  there  are  half-a-dozen 
lounging  chairs.  How  Mrs.  Macgregor  furnishes  her  house, 
dresses  her  daughter,  keeps  her  carriage,  gives  her  quantum  of 
parties  in  the  season,  and  goes  everywhere,  is  a  conundrum 
several  families  on  the  avenue  are  interested  in  solving,  am' 
cannot.  All  this  she  does  and  more.  Newport  and  Saratoga 
know  them  in  the  summer  solstice  ;  their  seat  at  the  opera  and 
at  Wallack's  is  always  filled  ;  they  have  an  open  account  at 
Stewart's  and  another  at  Tiffany's.  "And  how  on  earth  does 
Mrs.  Macgregor  do  it,"  ask  the  avenue  families,  "  when  we  all 
know  how  John  Macgregor  left  her  nothing  but  the  house  -.he 
lives  in  and  a  beggarly  two  thousand  a  year." 

Miss  Owenson  takes  down  a  book  at  random,  and  returns  to 
her  chair.  The  book  turns  out  to  be  "  Sintram,"  a  very  old 
friend,  and  a  very  great  favorite — one  that  will  bear  reading 
many  times,  and  the  closing  page  of  which  Sydney  has  never 
yet  reached  with  dry  eyes.  She  opens  near  the  middle  and  be- 
gins to  read,  and  soon  all  things,  all  cares  of  her  own,  the  very 
memory  of  her  own  life-sorrows,  are  lost  in  the  ideal  sorrows 
of  "  Sintram."  Brave,  tempted,  noble,  forsaken,  her  heart  is 
•with  him  through  all,  far  more  than  with  Sir  Folko,  stainless 
knight  and  happy  husband.  Her  eyes  are  dewy  as  she  reads 
lines  that  tell  poor,  tempted,  sorrowing  Sintram  that  his  trials 
are  almost  done. 


"  Death  comes  to  set  thee  free ; 
Oh!  meet  him  cheerily, 

As  thy  true  friend  ; 
Then  all  thy  fears  shall  cease, 
And  in  eternal  peace 

Thy  penance  end  !  " 


"  Sydney,"  calls  a  voice,  the  clear,  fresh  voice  of  Katherine 
Macgregor.  Then  the  library  door  is  thrown  open  by  an  im- 
petuous glove!  hand,  and  Katherine  Macgregor,  in  stylish 
carriage  costume,  stately  as  her  name,  tall  and  elegant,  rustles 
in. 

"  What !  reading,"  she  exclaims,  and  not  dressed — and  it  is 
half-past  three,  and  we  promised  to  be  ready  at  three,  and  poo1' 
Uncle  Grif  pottering  about  the  drawing-room  waiting  for  the 
last  hour  ?  Oh  !  this  is  too  much  !  even  my  patience  has  its 
limits.  What  is  that  you  have  got  hold  of  now  ?  " 


SYDNEY.  257 

Without  cerem  jny  Miss  Macgregor  snatches  the  book,  and 
her  little,  piquant  nez  retrouae  curls  scornfully  as  she  glances 
at  the  title. 

"  Sintram  and  His  Companions  !  That  you  should  live  to  be 
two-and-twenty,  and  still  addicted  to  fairy  tales ! " 

"  It  isn't  a  fairy  tale,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  laughing. 

"  It  is  all  the  same — goblins  and  demons,  and  skeletons,  and 
death's  heads.  Ugh  !  I  began  it  once  and  had  the  nightmare 
after  it.  How  any  one  can  read  such  rubbish,  with  dozens  of 
delicious  new  novels  out  every  day,  I  cannot  imagine." 

"Your  new  novels  are  the  rubbish,  judging  by  the  criticisms 
I  read  of  them.  One  Sintram,  wild,  pathetic,  old  legend  that 
it  is,  is  worth  the  whole  boiling " 

"  1  don't  care  for  pathetic  things,1'  says  Miss  {Catherine  Mac- 
gregor, shrugging  her  shoulders  ;  "  one's  daily  life  and  its  wor- 
ries are  as  pathetic  a  legend  as  /  want  to  know  anything  about." 

Sydney  lifts  her  eyes  and  looks  at  her.  A  fall  brunette,  not 
really  handsome,  but  making  the  most  of  herself,  of  a  fine  erect 
figure,  a  pair  of  sparkling  black  eyes,  and  set  of  very  white 
teeth.  Vivacity  is  becoming  to  Miss  Macgregor's  peculiar 
style,  consequently  Miss  Macgregor  is  charmingly  vivacious 
and  high-spirited  everywhere  except — at  home.  Dull  parties 
"go  oft""  with  Katie  Macgregor  to  the  fore;  heavy  dinners  are 
lightened  ;  very  young  men  fall  in  love  with  her  at  sight  ;  mar- 
ried men  are  invariably  smitten  when  they  sit  near  her.  She 
plays  the  piano  well,  waltzes  well,  dresses  in  excellent  taste,  sings 
a  little,  and  can  "  take  "  Broadway  of  a  sunny  afternoon,  with  a 
dash  and  elan  that  makes  every  masculine  head  turn  involuntarily 
to  look  again.  And  it  must  be  added  that  Miss  Macgregor's  face 
is  very  well  known  on  Broadway,  indeed,  better  and  longer  than 
she  likes  to  think,  herself.  She  is  three  years  Sydney's  senior, 
and  as  she  came  out  at  sixteen,  the  ways  of  the  wicked  world 
are  as  a  twice  told  tale  to  Katherine  Macgregor,  and  Money  and 
Matrimony — "  the  two  capital  M's,"  as  her  brother  Dick  calls 
them — long  ago  became  the  leading  aHis  of  her  life.  As  indeed 
of  what  well  regulated  young  women  aio  they  not  ? 

"  You  worried,  Katie  ? "  Sydney  says,  still  laughing ;  "  do 
my  ears  deceive  me  ?  Who  would  think  Katie  Macgregor, 
>unbeam  of  New  York,'  as  I  heard  poor  young  Van 
(Juyler  call  you  last  night,  had  a  care." 

"  The  laughing  hyena  of  New  York  is  brother  Dick's  name 
for  it,  and  the  more  suitable  of  the  two,"  responds  Miss  Mac- 
gregor, rather  bitterly.  "  To  cat,  drink,  and  be  merry,  mamma 


258  SYDNEY. 

told  ir.e  when  I  was  sixteen,  was  to  be  my  role  through  life — • 
laughter  is  becoming,  you  know,  to  people  with  white  teeth 
and  black  eyes,  so  I  began  at  her  command,  and  have  gone  on 
ever  since.  It  has  become  second  nature  by  this  time,  but  to 
laugh  is  one  thing,  to  be  happy  another." 

"What  is  tlie  trouble,  dear?"  Sydney  asks;  ''is  it  anything 
in  which  I  can  help  you  ?  If  so " 

"  Thanks,  Syd — no,  you  cannot  help  me,  unless  you  can  in- 
duce somebody  to  leave  me  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  dollars. 
Dollars,  the  great  want  of  the  world,  are  my  want.  With  them 
I  need  not  become  Mrs.  Cornelius  Vanderdonck — without 
them  I  must." 

"  Katie  !  Old  Mr.  Vanderdonck  !  Ill-tempered,  rheumatic, 
sixty  years  !  You  surely  do  not  dream  of  marrying  him  ?  " 

"  I  surely  do  — only  too  happy  and  thankful  to  have  him  ask 
me.  I  am  tired,  tired  and  sick,  Sydney,  of  the  life  we  lead, 
hand  to  mouth,  pinching  here,  and  saving  there  ;  servants  un- 
paid, bills,  duns,  mamma  nearly  at  her  wits'  end.  Oh  !  you 
don't  know  !  In  my  place  you  would  be  as  mercenary  and  heart- 
less as  I  am." 

"  But  I  thought,"  Sydney  says,  with  a  puzzled  look,  "  that 
Aunt  Helen  was  rich?"  (Aunt  Helen  is  a  convenient  term  for 
her  mother's  cousin.)  "  If  money  matters  are  your  only  trouble, 
Katie,  why  do  you  not  draw  on  me  ?  I  have  more  than  I  can 
possibly  use,  and  you  must  know,  Aunt  Helen  must  know,  that 
I  would  be  only  too  glad " 

"  We  know  you  are  generosity  itself,  Sydney,  dear,"  responds 
Miss  Macgregor,  still  with  that  touch  of  cynicism  in  her  voice 
that  she  keeps  strictly  for  family  use,  "  but  even  you  might  grow 
weary  after  a  time  of  supporting  a  large  family  of  third  cousins. 
And  of  the  two  evils — marrying  sixty  years,  ill-temper,  and 
ugliness,  or  swindling  you  to  your  face,  I  really  think  I  prefer  the 
former.  But  this  is  all  a  waste  of  time."  Miss  Macgregor 
pulls  at  her  watch.  "  Twenty  minutes  to  four  and  the  daylight 
waning  already,  and  Von  Ette's  studio  closes  invariably  at  five. 
I  give  you  just  ten  minutes  to  dress,  Miss  Owenson.  The  car- 
riage is  already  at  the  door." 

"  The  new  picture  !  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it !  "  cries 
Miss  Owenson  starting  up.  "Ten  minutes  is  it,  Katie  ?  Very 
well — in  ten  minutes  I  will  be  ready." 

Strange  to  say,  Miss  Owenson  keeps  her  word.  In  ten 
minutes  she  descends,  a  seal  jacket  over  her  black  silk  dress,  a 
black  hat  with  a  long  black  plume  on  her  head,  and  her  fail 


SYDNEY.  259 

face  and  golden  hair,  very  fair  by  contrast.     Dee^  mourninq 
Sydney  has  left  off,  colors  she  has  not  yet  assumed. 

"  Uncle  Grif  grew  tired  of  waiting,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  as 
they  enter  the  carriage,  "and  toddled  off  by  himself  to  meet  us 
at  Pbilippi — 1  mean  at  Von  Ette's.'' 

"  Who  is  this  Monsieur  Von  Ette?"  Sydney  asks.  "His 
name  is  new  to  me." 

"  The  name  is  new  to  us  all.  A  year  ago  Carl  Von  Ett6 
was  a  beggar — literally  a  beggar  in  the  streets  of  New  York, 
hawking  his  own  pictures  from  door  to  door,  and  earning  a 
crust  and  a  garret.  One  day  he  fell  down  in  a  fainting  fit  in 
he  street,  from  sheer  starvation,  and  a  man  nearly  as  poor  as 
himself,  took  him  home,  nursed  him,  encouraged  him,  and  the 
result — Von  Ette  has  painted  a  picture  that  the  town  talks  of, 
and  is  on  the  high  road  to  fame  and  fortune." 

"And  his  friend  — the  good  Samaritan — what  of  him  ?" 

Sydney's  eyes  glisten  as  she  asks  the  question.  Her  sym- 
pathetics  are  very  quick — it  is  things  like  these  that  go  home 
to  her  heart.  For  Miss  Macgregor,  her  cynical  look  comes 
back. 

"  The  good  Samaritan  is  precisely  where  he  was — the  usual 
fate  of  good  Samaritans,  is  it  not? — plodding  along  in  a  lawyer's 
office.  Lewis  Nolan  may  be  the  cause  of  greatness  to  others, 
but  I  have  a  presentiment  he  will  never  be  great  himself.  He 
has  exploded  theories  about  honor  and  honesty,  that  keep  men 
back.  Here  we  are.  Raise  your  dress,  Sydney.  These  stairs 
may  have  been  swept  during  the  last  ten  years,  but  I  doubt  it. 
Your  true  artist  is  a  dirty  creature,  or  nothing." 

She  lifts  her  glistening  silk  train  and  runs  lightly  up  the  stairs, 
her  vivacious  society  face  in  its  best  working  order.  Miss  Owen- 
son,  with  an  expression  of  extreme  distaste  for  ihe  dirty,  un- 
swept  stairs,  gathers  up  her  skirts  and  follows. 

"  Shall  we  see  the  artist,  Katie  ?  "  she  asks. 

"  No,  decidedly.  Von  Ette  is  a  perfect  miracle  of  ugliness — 
is  next  door  to  a  dwarf,  and  has  a  hump.  No  one  ever  enters 
his  studio  when  he  is  there  but  Uncle  Grif  and  Lewis  Nolan." 

"  The  good  Samaritian  !     Shall  we  see  him  ?  " 

They  have  reached  the  landing.  Miss  Macgregor  gives  her- 
self one  small  shake,  and  shakes  every  ribbon,  every  silken  fold 
into  its  place  in  a  second.  She  pauses  at  her  cousin's  question, 
and  looks  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Perhaps  !  "  she  answers,  slowly  ;  "  and  if  we  do,  I  want  you 
to  look  at  him  well  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  him.     Lewis 


260  "SINTRAM." 

Nolan    has  been  my  puzzle  for  the  past  ten  years,  and  is  more 
my  puzzle\to-day  than  ever.     Let  us  see  if  you  can  solve  it." 

She  taps  at  the  door,  opens  it,  and  the  two  young  ladies  are 
in  the  studio. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  SINTRAM." 

j|T  was  a  large  and  well-lighted  room,  the  floor  covered 
with  dark-red  wool  carpet,  the  walls  colored  of  some 
dull,  neutral  tint  and,  containing  by  way  of  furniture 
three  queer  spindle-legged,  old-fashioned  chairs. 
Three  or  four  ladies  and  as  many  men  stood  clustered  around 
a  picture — the  picture,  the  only  picture  upon  the  wall.  At  the 
extreme  end  of  the  room  two  or  three  others  hung — excepting 
these  the  plastered  walls  were  quite  bare. 

"Von  F,tte's  studio  is  as  grim  and  ugly  as  himself,"  remarked 
Miss  Macgregor,  taking  in  the  place  and  the  people  with  an 
American  girl's  cool,  broad  stare.  "There  is  Uncle  Grif  gaz- 
ing through  his  venerable  old  specs,  lost  in  a  trance  of  admira- 
tion, just  as  if  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  The  dear  old  soul 
has  no  more  idea  of  art  than  a  benevolent  torn  cat,  but  a  sign- 
board painted  by  little  Von  Ette  would  be  in  his  eyes  as  a 
Murillo  or  a  Rubens  in  those  of  other  people." 

M.  Von  Ette  is  then  a. protege  of  Uncle  Grit's?"  asks  Miss 
Owenson.  "  Let  us  take  a  seat  until  these  good  people  dis- 
perse. I  detest  looking  at  a  picture  over  other's  shoulders." 

"  Carl  Von  Ette  is  a.  protege  of  Lewis  Nolan.  Lewis  Nolan, 
since  he  was  twelve  )iears  old,  has  been  a  protege  of  Uncle 
Grif's  ;  while  Uncle  Grif,  ever  since  I  can  remember,  has  been 
mamma's  abject  slave.  1  never  knew  him  to  rebel  except  on 
one  point,  and  that  point  this  same  Lewis  Nolan.  '  The  money 
you  spend  upon  that  Irish  boy,  Brother  Grif,'  says  mamma, 
looking  at  him  with  her  glance,  beneath  which  the  stoutest 
heart  may  well  blench,  '  would  be  much  more  suitably  employed 
in  educating  your  only  sister's  orphan  children.  Charity  begins 
at  home,  sir.'  And  Uncle  Grif,  bless  him  !  quails  and  trem- 
bles, and  makes  answer,  in  quivering  falsetto,  '  Little  Lewis  ib 


"SINTRAM."  261 

like  a  son  to  me,  Sister  Helen.  It  is  but  little  that  I  tan  do 
for  him  ;  that  little  I  mean  to  do  ;  whatever  is  left,  you  and  the 
children  are  welcome  to,  I'm  sure.'  " 

Miss  Macgregor,  in  her  most  vivacious  tone,  parodies  her 
mother  and  uncle  without  the  smallest  compunction,  and  the 
mimicry  is  so  good  that  Sydney  has  to  laugh. 

"  Mr.  Nolan  is  Irish,  then,  and  poor  ?  " 

"  Of  Irish  extraction,  and  poor  as  a  rat.  His  mother  and 
sister  are  seamstresses.  He  is  a  lawyer  now,  admitted  to  the 
bar,  thanks  to  uncle.  He  began  life  selling  papers,  was  ele- 
vated to  office-sweeping,  was  one  of  those  boys  you  read  of  in 
Sunday-school  books,  and  goody  literature  generally,  who  are 
athirst  after  knowledge,  spend  their  leisure  hours  in  hard  study, 
rise  to  be  prime  ministers,  and  marry  a  duke's  daughter.  Mr. 
Nolan  has  not  had  greatness  of  any  kind  thrust  upon  him  yet, 
but,  after  all,  I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least  surprised  to  see  him  a 
ruler  in  the  land  before  his  hair  is  gray — one  of  those  self-made 
men,  who  are  so  dreadfully  priggish  and  pompous,  and  who 
never  tell  a  lie  in  their  lives.  There!  an  opening  at  last.  Now 
let  us  go  and  look  at  the  pictures." 

Kate  Macgregor's  cynicisms  and  worldly  knowledge,  her  sar- 
castic strictures,  on  every  subject  under  the  sun,  were  a  never- 
failing  source  of  wonder  and  amusement  to  Sydney.  A  very 
good  type  of  the  girl  of  the  period  was  Miss  Macgregor, 
devouring  with  relish  the  newspaper  literature  of  the  day,  mur- 
ders, divorces,  scandals  the  most  atrocious,  and  ready  to  dis- 
cuss and  analyze  the  most  revolting  cases  with  perfect  sang 
froid — a  girl  to  whom  love  had  meant  nothing  since  her  seven- 
teenth birth-day,  and  marriage  and  an  establishment  every- 
thing— a  girl  who  flirted,  waltzed,  took  presents,  went  to  water- 
ing-places every  summer,  went  to  parties  every  winter,  and  in 
the  midst  of  all  kept  a  bright  look-out  for  the  main  chance — 
a  girl  who  looked  calmly  in  the  face  of  every  man  to  whom  she 
was  introduced,  with  these  two  questions  uppermost  in  her 
mind  :  "  Is  he  rich  ?"  and  "  Can  I  induce  him  to  marry  me  ?  " 
Not  an  evil-minded  or  bad  hearted  young  woman  by  any 
means ;  simply  a  latter-day  young  lady,  true  to  the  teachings 
of  her  life,  and  of  the  world,  worldly,  to  her  inmos'  soul. 

The  little  group  before  the  painting  had  dispersed,  and  the 
cousins  were  free  to  look  at  their  leisure.  Miss  Macgregor 
doubled  up  her  gray  gloved  hands,  pursed  her  lips,  and  set  her- 
seil  to  find  out  its  faults. 

"H'm!    a  very  pretty  picture — subject   somewhat 


262  ••  SINTRAM. 

'  The  Little  Sister.'  Nuns  are  rather  a  hackneyed  subject,  but 
always  effective.  The  gas-light  falling  on  that  girl's  face  is 
very  good — very  good,  indeed — a  fallen  woman  in  more  senses 
than  one.  The  Sister's  dress  is  painted  with  pre-Raphaelite  fidel- 
ity, and  the  face — I  should  say,  now,  the  face  was  painted  from 
memory — not  exactly  pretty,  but  very  sweet.  I  have  seen 
Sisters  of  Charity  with  just  that  expression.  Do  you  like  it, 
Sydney — you,  who  have  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  pictures,  so 
to  speak,  for  the  last  five  years  ?  " 

"  Like  it  ? — yes."  Sydney  answers  dreamily,  and  that  elo- 
quent face  of  hers — truly  an  eloquent  face,  where  all  feelings 
of  the  heart  are  concerned — says  far  more  than  the  quiet  words. 
The  picture  pleases  her  artistic  sense,  but  it  has  done  more — 
it  has  touched  her  heart,  and  she  stands  very  silent  and  looks 
at  it  long.  It  is  a  city  scene — a  twilight  scene.  A  primrose  light 
yet  lingers  coldly  in  the  wintry  sky — the  haze  of  early  evening 
fills  the  air,  and  the  street  lamps  blink  dimly  through  it.  One 
or  two  bright  frosty  stars  pierce  the  chill  opaline  lustre,  but  day 
has  not  yet  departed.  In  the  archway  of  a  large  building  a 
woman — a  mere  girl — seems  to  have  fallen,  huddling  her  rags 
about  her  in  a  strange,  distorted  attitude  of  pairt.  Her  face  is 
upturned,  the  gas  Hares  upon  it,  and  the  haggard  eyes  stare 
fiercely  in  their  infinite  misery,  their  reckless,  crazed  despair. 
Above  her,  bending  over  her,  her  basket  on  her  arm,  stands  a 
little  Sister  of  the  Poor,  in  her  black  nun's  dress.  Infinite  com- 
passion, angelic  pity,  heavenly  sweetness,  are  in  the  nun's  wist- 
ful face,  its  peace,  its  purity,  its  tender  gentleness,  in  striking 
contrast  with  the  fierce  despair,  the  haggard  pain,  the  reckless 
wretchedness  of  her  sinning  sister. 

"  Oh  !  "  Sydney  says,  half  under  her  breath,  "how  beautiful 
it  is,  how  pathetic  a  story  it  tells  !  Katie,  your  Von  Ette  is  a 
genius." 

"  Very  likely,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  one  of  her  shrugs  ; 
"  he  is  hideous  enough,  I  am  sure.  The  contrast  between  those 
two  faces  is  very  good.  By-the-by,  there  is  Mrs.  Grierson — 
odious  creature — and,  as  usual,  disgustingly  overdressed.  I 
must  go  and  speak  to  her.  The  idea  of  that  woman  coming  to 
see  a  picture  !  the  only  painting  she  has  soul  enough  to  appre- 
ciate is  the  drop  scene  of  a  theatre,  when  Grierson  isn't  there, 
and  she  has  a  new  flirtation  in  hand." 

And  then  Miss  Katherine  sweeps  gracefully  and  graciously 
over,  and  ki?so*  Ijer  friend  with  effusion,  and  in  a  moment  they 
are  in  the  midst  of  a  most  animated  conversation,  abusing  theil 


"SINTRAMS  263 

absent  and  mutual  friends,  no  doubt,  Miss  Owenson  thinks 
with  disdain.  She  presently  leaves  the  picture  she  has  come 
to  see  ar.d  saunters  down  the  room  to  view  the  others.  They 
are  not  of  equal  merit,  rather  poor  in  fact,  with  the  exception 
of  one  which  rivets  her  attention  from  the  first.  For  it  is  called 
"  Sintram,"  and  is  oddly  enough  a  scene  from  the  story  she 
was  reading  an  hour  ago. 

It  is  a  very  small  picture,  but,  in  a  different  way,  quite  as 
striking  as  "The  Little  Sister."  A  dead  white  expanse  of 
frozen  snow,  paling  away  into  the  gray  and  low-lying  sky. 
Black  and  spectral  against  this  ghostly  whiteness  stands  out  the 
tall,  powerful  figure  of  Sintram,  his  dark  face,  full  of  passion, 
remorse,  and  horror.  Behind  him,  leering  and  evil,  tempting 
him  to  the  murder  of  his  friend  for  the  sake  of  that  friend's  wife, 
crouches  "  The  Little  Master."  Away  in  the  distance,  at  the 
foot  of  an  icy  precipice,  lies  prostrate  and  helpless  the  gallant 
Sir  Folko.  But  the  interest  of  the  picture  centres  in  Sintram. 
You  can  see  the  fierce  battle  between  temptation  and  honor, 
between  the  inherent  ferocity  and  mobility  of  his  nature,  and 
you  wonder  almost  painfully  how  the  struggle  will  end. 

Sydney  lingers,  fascinated,  and  while  she  stands,  Katherine 
deserts  her  friend  and  returns  to  her.  An  exclamation  from 
Miss  Macgregor  makes  her  glance  iound  ;  that  young  lady 
pauses  and  gazes  at  "  Sintram"  with  an  inexplicable  expression 
of  face. 

'*  Is  it  not  exquisite  ?  "  Sydney  asks  ;  "  even  better  in  its  way 
than  the  other?  You  can  see  the  torture  poor,  tempted,  loyal 
Sintram  is  suffering  in  his  very  face." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  may  depict  Sintram,"  says  Katie,  in 
her  most  caustic  voice.  "  I  know  it  is  a  very  good  portrait  of 
Lewis  Nolan,  although  I  never  saw  him  wear  any  such  gruesome 
expression  as  that." 

She  stands  and  regards  it  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  SyJ 
ney  does  not  understand,  but   which  is  something  deeper  than, 
mere  criticism. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  for  sale?"  Sydney  eagerly  asks.  "  I  shoulJ 
like  to  buy  it.  It  is  my  ideal  Sintram  exactly." 

"  You  can  very  easily  ascertain.  Uncle  Grif  will  negotiate 
Ihs  transaction  for  you  with  Von  Ette.  I  will  call  him  now." 

She  breaks  abruptly  off.  Uncle  Grif  still  remains  where  she 
has  left  him,  but  no  longer  meekly  alone.  A  man  has  entered 
and  stands  talking  to  him,  his  tall  head  slightly  bent,  a  grave 
imile  on  hi$  face,  Mr.  Nolan,  Sydney  knows  in  a  moment,  partly 


264  "SINTRAMr 

by  the  expression  of  her  cousin's  face,  partly  by  his  vivid  re- 
semblance to  the  "  Sintram."  Miss  Macgregor  is  right,  the 
likeness  is  a  very  good  one,  lacking  of  course,  the  agony  of 
despair.  A  very  tall  man  is  Mr.  Nolan.  Sydney  glances  approv- 
ingly at  the  active  figure  and  broad  shoulders,  with  a  black,  close- 
cropped  head,  and  a  dark,  rather  sallow  face,  a  face  whose 
habitual  expression  will  be  that  of  profound  gravity,  but  which 
is  lighted  just  now  by  a  very  genial  smile.  By  no  means  a  hand- 
some face,  but.  a  very  good  one,  a  thinking  face,  a  strong  face, 
the  face,  it  might  be,  of  a  man  of  powerful  passions,  held  well 
in  hand  by  a  still  more  powerful  will. 

"  Here  they  come,"  says  Katherine  Macgregor,  half  under  her 
breath,  "  Now,  then,  Sydney,  solve  my  riddle  if  you  can.  Tell 
me  what  manner  of  man  Lewis  Nolan  is  ?" 

"  He  is  a  man  who  carries  himself  well,  at  least,"  says  Miss 
Owenson,  with  a  second  calmly  approving  glance.  "  Your  very 
tall  man  slouches,  as  a  rule  ;  Mr.  Nolan  does  not." 

"  Lewis,"  says  Uncle  Grif,  shambling  up  to  his  niece  and 
looking  at  her  in  meek  deprecation,  for  the  old  man  stands  in 
mortal  awe  of  his  dashing  young  relative,  "  this  is  Katherine, 
my  niece,  Katherine.  You  remember  Katherine,  don't  you?" 

"  It  is  much  easier  to  remember  Miss  Katherine  than  to 
forget  her,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  with  an  amused  glance  into  Miss 
Katherine' s  laughing  eyes.  "  My  memory  in  some  cases  is 
fatally  good." 

"  Uncle  Grif  himself  never  remembers  my  existence  five  sec- 
onds after  I  am  out  of  his  sight,  and  naturally  takes  it  for  granted 
the  rest  of  mankind  are  equally  criminal,"  says  Katherine. 

"  We  have  come  to  see  the  picture,  you  perceive,  Mr.  Nolan. 
It  is  charming.  I  have  fallen  quite  in  love  with  Mr.  Von  Ette 
since  I  saw  it.  I  always  do  fall  in  love  with  genius." 

"  Happy  Von  Ette — happy  genius  ?  Would  that  I — but  of 
what  avail  are  wishes  ?  1  shall  transport  Carl  to  the  seventh 
heaven  this  evening  by  letting  him  know." 

"  As  for  this,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  a  graceful  motion 
toward  the  "  Sintram,"  "my  cousin  is  enchanted  with  it.  Oh  ! — 
excuse  rue — my  cousin,  Miss  Owenson,  Mr.  Nolan.  Quite  a 
foreigner,  I  assure  you,  and  a  judge  of  pictures  ;  has  spent  the 
last  five  years  of  her  existence  running  from  one  picture  gallery 
of  Europe  to  another." 

"Poor  Van  Ette  !  How  wretched  the  knowledge  will  make 
him,  that  so  formidable  a  connoisseur  has  bten  criticising  hi& 
poor  attempts." 


"  STNTRAM"  265 

"  I  am  afraid  that  speech  is  more  sarcastic  than  sincere," 
answers  Miss  Owenson,  coolly.  "  I  am  not  in  the  least  a  critic. 
I  know  when  a  picture  pleases  me,  and  very  often  the  pic- 
ture that  pleases  me  is  one  connoisseurs  pass  over  in  con- 
terhnt." 

""And  'The  Little  Sister,'"  Mr.  Nolan  asks,  "you  really 
like  it,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  really  do.  Jt  is  a  charming  subject,  charmingly  executed. 
But  it  may  surprise  you  to  hear,  I  like  this  better." 

"  That !  '  Sintram  ? '  Why,  Von  Ette  put  that  in  a  corner 
out  of  the  way.  I  am  nothing  of  a  judge  myself;  I  fancied  it 
rather  good.  I  am  not  unprejudiced,  though,  for  Sintram,  on 
canvas  or  off  it,  is  a  very  old  friend  of  mine." 

"Is  he?"  Miss  Owenson,  relaxes  into  an  approving  smile. 
"  You  have  sat — stood  rather — for  this  Sintram  evidently."  Mr. 
Nolan  laughs. 

"Yes — Von  Ett6  read  the  book  in  one  of  his  lazy  evenings, 
and  conceived  the  happy  idea  that  I  resembled  the  hero.  Sin- 
tram  had  a  black  complexion,  if  you  remember,  and  a  correspond- 
ing ferocity  of  disposition  ;  so  the  happy  idea  was  not  personally 
flattering.  I  posed  with  a  tragic  expression  accordingly,  and 
you  see  the  result." 

"  A  very  satisfactory  result,"  interposes  Katie  ;  "  you  have 
rather  the  look  of  a  first  murderer  in  a  melodrama.  Did  you 
really  hurl  the  gentleman  yonder  over  the  precipice  in  a  trans- 
port of  madness,  or  how  ?  My  recollections  of  Sintram  are 
hazy." 

Both  young  ladies,  as  it  chances,  are  looking  into  Mr.  Nolan's 
face  and  both  see  a  most  remarkable  change  pass  over  it  as 
Katie  Macgregor  speaks.  The  dark,  colorless  complexion 
fades  slowly  to  a  gray  white.  But  he  neither  starts,  nor  turns 
away ;  only  Sydney  notices  that  his  hands  tighten  over  the  felt 
hat  he  holds. 

"  My  favorite  Sintram  does  no  such  dastardly  deed,"  she 
says,  coming  intuitively  to  the  rescue,  and  glancing  away  from 
Mr.  Nolan's  altered  face,  "  Sir  Folko  falls  over,  and  Sintram 
flies  to  the  rescue  like  the  gallant  knight  he  is.  Is  the  picture 
for  sale,  Mr.  Nolan  ?  I  should  like  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
possessing  it." 

"It  is  for  sale,"  he  answers.  "Von  Ette  will  only  be  too 
glad  to  dispose  of  it." 

He  speaks  quite  calmly,  but  the  traitor  blood  doe:  ^ct  re- 
turn. He  is  deadly  pale  still,  and  his  eyes — very  handsome 
12 


266  "  SINTRAM7* 

dark  gray  eyes  Sydney  notices,  are  fixed  in  a  curious  way  on  the 
picture. 

"  Then,  Uncle  Grif,  may  I  commission  you  to  purchase  it  foi 
me,"  says  Miss  Ovvenson.  "  I  really  have  seen  nothing  in  a 
long  time  which  has  so  completely  taken  my  fancy." 

Uncle  Griff  is  no  kin  of  Miss  Owenson's,  but  he  is  Uncle 
Grif  to  all  who  have  ever  known  him.  Indeed,  his  sprightly 
niece  goes  so  far  as  to  affirm  that  in  his  tender  years  he  was 
"  Uncle  Grif"  to  the  other  boys  of  the  school.  A  thin, 
patient-looking  old  man,  whom  you  intuitively  know  for  an  oW 
bachelor  at  sight,  badgered  by  his  strong-minded  sister,  patron- 
ized by  his  nephew  and  niece,  and  imposed  upon  in  a  general 
way  by  all  the  world.  One  of  those  men  who  battle  weakly  all 
their  lives  with  Mammon,  and  end  as  they  began,  hopelessly 
poor — one  of  the  great  brigade  of  the  Unsuccessful. 

"  Uncle  Grif  tells  us  you  are  engaged  in  the  great  Harland 
case,  Mr.  Nolan,"-  remarks  Katherine  Macgregor. 

"As  junior  counsel — yes." 

He  answers  rather  dreamily,  his  eyes  still  fixed  with  that  curi- 
ously intent  look  upon  the  "  Sintram." 

"  It  is  a  great  opening,  is  it  not  ?  You  will  have  a  chance — • 
and  you  only  need  a  chance,  I  am  sure,  to  distinguish  yourself." 

"  Mr.  Graham  will  have  chance  enough  ;  there  is  very  little 
for  me." 

He  takes  no  notice  of  her  smooth  compliment ;  he  appears  to 
answer  mechanically,  his  thoughts  with  the  picture,  or  something 
it  suggests. 

"  You  are  for  the  defence,"  persists  his  fair  inquisitor — "  for 
Mrs.  Harland,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Poor  thing  !  " — Katherine  heaves  a  sympathetic  sigh — "how 
dreadfully  she  must  feel,  to  be  tried  in  a  week  for  her  life." 

"  There  is  no  question  of  her  life,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  still  in  that 
absent  tone  ;  "  they  cannot  bring  it  in  wilful  murder,  do  their 
worst.  It  will  be  outrageous  to  bring  it  in  even  manslaughter. 
Our  hope  is  that  we  will  get  a  verdict  of  '  not  guilty.'  " 

"  But  she  is  guilty,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  opening  her  eyes ; 
"  she  killed  her  husband.  Killing  is  murder,  is  it  not  ?" 

"God  forbid  !"  cries  Lewis  Nolan,  so  suddenly,  so  energeti- 
cally, that  Katie  absolutely  recoiled. 

"  What  then  do  you  call  it  ? "  asks  Sydney,  looking  at  him 
with  wondering  blue  eyes. 

"  Not  murder,  certainly,  else  Heaven  help  the  world      To 


"SINTRAM.n  267 

hate  a  man,  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  to  assassinate  him,  coolly  and 
deliberately,  and  with  malice  prepense — that  is  murder,  if  you 
like,  and  worthy  of  the  gallows." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  says  Katherine,  with  a  second  sympathetic  sigh. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  makes  much  difference  to  the  victim, 
though,"  says  Sydney ;  "  the  result  is  the  same  so  far  as  he  is 
concerned,  whether  he  is  murdered  in  hot  blood  or  cold.  Mr. 
Harland  was  sent  into  eternity  by  the  hand  of  his  wife  just  -as 
surely  as  though  she  had  lain  in  wait  there  for  hours,  pistol  in 
hand. 

"  He  was  a  brute,"  exclaimed  Miss  Macgregor,  "  for  whom 
shooting  was  too  good." 

"A  brute  I  grant,  if  what  the  papers  say  of  him  be  true,  who 
most  shamefully  insulted  and  ill-treated  his  wife.  All  the  same, 
he  has  died  by  her  hand,  and  his  blood  is  upon  her." 

"  She  did  not  mean  to  kill  him." 

"  Can  that  avail  the  soul  sent  before  its  Maker  in  a  moment 
of  time,  with  all  its  transgressions  upon  it?"  cries  Sydney,  her 
eyes  kindling.  She  did  kill  him,  and  she  is  his  murderess." 

"  Miss  Owenson,  she  is  guiltless,"  exclaims  I/ewis  Nolan,  an 
answering  fire  kindling  in  his  eyes — "  guiltless  before  Heaven, 
as  we  shall  try  to  prove  her  before  man." 

"  And  I  hold  her  guilty,  with  blood  to  answer  and  atone  for, 
in  this  world  and  in  the  next." 

"  You  have  not  read  the  papers — you  cannot  have  read  the 
case,"  says  Mr.  Nolan  in  suppressed  strong  excitement.  "  The 
man  was,  as  Miss  Macgregor  says,  a  brute,  a  devil  incarnate. 
He  maddened  his  wife  in  every  way  that  a  man  can  madden  a  wo- 
man— he  starved  her,  he  beat  her,  he  slandered  her,  he  insulted 
her  ;  her  very  life  was  not  safe.  In  a  moment  of  madness,  goaded 
beyond  human  power  of  endurance,  she  snatches  his  revolver 
from  the  table,  where  he  has  just  laid  it,  tires,  and  kills  him — 
by  sheer  chance,  for  she  never  fired  a  pistol  before  in  her  life. 
1  tell  you  the  man  is  guilty  of  his  own  death,  not  she.  Jt  was 
rightful  retribution. 

"  Retribution,  perhaps,"  Miss  Owenson  responds,  in  a  tone 
whose  clear  coldness  contrasts  strikingly  with  the  repressed, 
almost  passionate  earnestness  of  his  "  still  a  murderess."  Her 
hand  sends  a  human  soul  unprepared  before  its  Judge.  I 
hold  it,  palliate  the  circumstances  as  you  will,  the  most  horrible 
of  earthly  crimes.  She  may  live,  repent,  be  forgiven — so  might 
he  in  time,  had  she  not  taken  his  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  no 
earthly  remorse  or  repentance  can  ever  atone  for  blood  -guiltiness. 


a  68  "SINTRAM." 

It  seems  incredible  to  me  that  any  conscientious  lawyer  can 
plead  for  the  man  or  the  woman  who  has  taken  a  life." 

"  Not  even  if  taken  in  a  moment  of  madness,  unpremedi- 
tated, regretted  as  soon  as  done  ?  " 

"  No  ;  for  once  done  it  can  never  be  undone.  No  remorse,  no 
repentance  can  give  back  life.  I  hold  that  no  provocation — 
none — none — can  pardon  or  condone  the  crime  of  taking  life." 

"  Miss  Owenson,  you  are  merciless.  Those  are  very  cruel 
words  from  a  woman's  gentle  lips." 

"  I  think  of  the  victim,  Mr.  Nolan,  as  well  as  the  slayer. 
And  justice  is  a  virtue  as  well  as  mercy." 

She  is  nearly  as  pale  as  Mr.  Nolan  herself,  and  both  are  paler 
than  Miss  Margregor  has  ever  seen  them.  Sydney  is  thinking 
of  Bertie  Vaughan  as  she  speaks.  If  he  were  murdered,  what 
would  all  the  remorse  and  repentance  of  a  lifetime  avail- to  atone 
for  that  death?  Heaven's  forgiveness  it  might  obtain,  since 
supreme  mercy  reigns  there ;  but  her  forgiveness — could  she 
ever  give  that  ? 

"  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  "  says  Uncle  Grif,  looking  beseech- 
ingly from  one  to  the  other,  "don't  excite  yourselves — now, 
don't.  What's  this  Mrs.  Harland  to  you,  Lewis,  my  boy,  that 
you  should  fight  her  battles  ?  Miss  Owenson,  don't  mind  him  ; 
he  doesn't  mean  a  word  he  says,  I'm  sure.  He  wouldn't  com- 
mit murder  for  the  world." 

"Bless  you,  Uncle  Grif!"  says  Katie,  patting  the  seedy 
brown  coat  affectionately,  "  what  a  counsel  for  the  defence  you 
would  make  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Owenson,"  Mr.  Nolan  says,  but 
he  says  it  with  unconscious  coldness  ;  "  I  have  let  my  profes- 
sional feelings  carry  me  too  far.  I  look  at  this  case  from  a 
man's  point  of  view — Miss  Owenson  from  a  young  lady's." 

"  It  is  I  who  should  apologize,"  retorts  Miss  Owenson  in  her 
stateliest  manner,  while  Katie  turns  aside  to  hide  a  satirical 
smile.  "  I  should  not  have  expressed  an  opinion  at  all." 

"•  All  the  same,  though,  you  adhere  like  wax  to  the  opinion 
you  have  expressed,"  says  the  sarcastic  voice  of  Cousin  Katie. 

"  Decidedly,"  still  coldly,  and  turning  for  a  last  look  at  the 
picture. 

Mr.  Nolan  follows  her  glance  gloomily  and  is  silent. 

Once  again  Katherine  Macgregor  throws  herself  manfully 
into  the  brelch. 

"  Nearly  five,  Sydney,  and  nearly  dark.  We  will  barely  have 
time  to  reach  home  before  dinner.  Lewis  " — she  turns  to  the 


"SINTRAM."  269 

young  lawyei  with  her  most  winning  smile — "  shall  we  see  you 
at  Mrs.  Graham's  conversazione  to-night  ?  Mrs.  Graham's  I 
know  to  be  one  of  the  few  houses  you  frequent." 

"  Yes — that  is,  no — 1  think  not.  I  half-promised,  but  we  are 
busy  at  the  office,  and  I  am  not  sure  I  can  get  off." 

"  Preparing  for  the  great  case,  I  understand.  Still,  come  if 
you  can.  All  work  and  no  play — you  know  the  rest.  Over 
work  is  worse  than  over-idleness." 

"  My  brain  will  stand  the  pressure,"  he  answers,  somewhat 
grimly.  "Thanks,  all  the  same,  for  your  friendly  interest,  Miss 
Macgregor." 

"  She  calls  him  Lewis,"  Sydney  thinks.  "  They  are  older 
friends  than  I  fancied.  I  don't  think  that  I  like  Mr.  Nolan." 

Mr.  Nolan  escorts  them  to  their  carriage,  and  stands,  hat  in 
hand,  at  the  door  until  they  drive  off.  Miss  Macgregor  is 
warmth  and  cordiality  itself.  Miss  Owenson's  final  bow  is 
slightly  iced. 

"  Well,  dear,  and  how  do  you  like  him  ?"  sweetly  inquires  Katie. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Sydney  responds.  "  Pleading  the  case  of  a 
woman  who  shoots  her  husband  in  a  fit-  of  ill-temper,  and  then 
patronizing  me  I  '  I  look  at  it  from  a  man's  point  of  view — 
Miss  Owenson  from  a  lady's.'  Impertinent!  1  wish  my  'Sin- 
tram'  did  not  resemble  him.  It  will  half  spoil  my  pleasure  in 
its  possession." 

"  I  foresee,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  calmly,  "  that  when  you 
have  met  Lewis  Nolan  a  few  times  more,  it  will  be  a  case  of 
mutual  and  reciprocal  adoration.  He  was  white  with  anger, 
Sydney,  when  talking  to  you.  And  what  did  he  turn  so  ghastly 
for,  in  the  first  instance,  when  I  asked  my  innocent  question  if 
Sintram  threw  the  other  man  over  the  cliff?" 

"  I  don't  presume  to  understand  the  various  moods  and 
changes  of  Mr.  Nolan's  ingenious  countenance,"  replies  cousin 
Sydney,  impatiently.  "  Do  drop  the  subject,  Katie." 

"  1  sincerely  hope  he  may  put  in  an  appearance  at  Mrs. 
Graham's  to  night,"  is  Cousin  Katie's  answer.  "  An  aquaint- 
anceso  auspiciously  begun  cannot  fail  to  end  happily.  H*re  we 
are  at  home." 

Miss  Owenson,  disdaining  all  reply,  goes  up  to  her  own  room. 
On  the  table  a  big  English  letter  lies,  and  with  an  exclamation 
of  pleasure  she  pounces  upon  it.  It  is  from  Cornwall.  From 
the  baionet's  sister;  and  in  Alicia  Leonard's  copious  pages,  she 
forgets  her  late  annoyance,  forgets  there  is  such  a  being  in  the 
scheme  of  the  universe  as  Mr.  Lewis  Nolan. 


2 7°  TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 

CHAPTER  III. 

TALK    AND    TEA AND    A    LETTER. 

|ARRY  has  refused  to  go,  at  the  last  moment,  with  the 
Arctic  expedition,  although  to  go  with  that  expeditior 
has  been  the  dream  of  his  life  for  the  past  two  years. 
Need  I  tell  you  the  reason  why,  little  friend  ?  The 
word  '  Come '  may  be  in  one  of  her  letters,  sooner  or  later,  Alicia,' 
he  said  to  me  the  other  day.  '  What  are  all  my  adventures  and 
ambitious  dreams  compared  to  that  one  word  from  her.'  Poor  fel- 
low !  you  should  see  with  what  wistful  eyes  he  watches  your  let- 
ters, and  my  face  as  I  read  them,  for  one  sign  of  hope.  And,  my 
darlirtg,  he  hardly-longs  for  your  return  more  than  I  do.  All  the 
sunshine  seems  to  have  gone  with  your  sweet  face,  from  our 
old  home." 

That  was  one  of  the  concluding  paragraphs  in  Miss  Alicia 
Leonard's  letter,  and  very  thoughtfully,  a  little  sadly,  Sydney 
folded  it  up,  and  sat  musing  long  and  deeply.  Why  should  she 
not  say  that  word  "  Come"  after  all,  and  bring  Sir  Harry  Leon- 
ard across  the  ocean,  to  claim  her  as  his  wife.  No  one  would 
ever  love  her  better,  no  one  would  ever  be  more  worthy  of  her 
love.  And  home,  and  two  loyal  hearts  would  be  hers.  Here 
she  had  no  home  ;  these  relatives  of  hers  could  never  be  tried 
and  trusty  friends.  Mrs.  Macgregor,  cold,  4iard,  calculating, 
repelled  her ;  Katharine,  cynical,  mercenary,  old  at  five-and- 
twenty,  at  times  she  revolted  from.  Her  heart  was  as  untouched 
to-day  as  it  had  been  five  years  ago  when  she  was  Bertie 
Vaughan's  plighted  bride — no  man  of  all  the  men  she  had  ever 
seen,  had  ever  awakened  any  stronger,  deeper  feeling  than 
cordial,  sincere  friendship.  Frank,  and  heart-whole,  she  had 
gone  through  life — it  seemed  to  her  must  ever  go.  She  had 
her  idea  of  the  man  *she  would  like  to  marry,  if  she  ever 
married,  which  she  was  not  at  all  certain  of,  but  certainly  none 
of  the  men  she  had  yet  met  approached  that  ideal.  No  doubt 
she  expected  too  much  ;  more  than  she  would  ever  find.  Why, 
then,  not  write  "  Come,"  and  go  back  with  Harry  Leonard  to 
that  bright  English  home  where  Alicia  awaited  her,  and  where 
she  had  spent  nine  such  happy  months?  She  did  not  love 
him — no  ;  but  she  liked  him  well,  and  love  might  follow.  Why 
not  write  "  Come  "  to  Sir  Harry  Leonard  ? 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A    LETTER.  271 

"  Now,  Sydney,  my  dear  child,"  says  Katherine,  putting  in 
her  head,  and  looking  imploringly,  "don't  sit  mooning  there  by 
yourself,  and  forget  all  about  the  conversazione,  I  beg.  What ! 
the  Cornish  post-mark  again  ?  From  the  baronet,  I  bet. ' 

For  Miss  Macgregor  said  "  I  bet,"  and  "  I  guess,"  was  well 
up  in  the  expressive  slang  of  the  day,  and  could  use  it  with 
killing  effect  at  proper  seasons,  on  her  victims. 

"  My  letter  is  from  Miss  Leonard,"  said  Sydney,  folding  it  up. 

"  Ah  !  Miss  Leonard — with  an  inclosure  from  mon  frere. 
Sydney,  own  up — don't  be  so  dreadfully  secretive.  I  am  sure 
I  tell  you  everything.  You  are  engaged  to  Sir  Harry  Leonard  ?  " 

"  Am  I  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  are.  Young,  good-looking,  rich,  a  baronet — 
how  could  you  refuse  him  ?  " 

"  How  indeed  !  I  never  said  I  refused  him.  I  never  said  he 
asked  me.  Miss  Leonard  and  her  brother  are  two  of  my  very 
dearest  friends.  Has  the  dinner  bell  rung  ?  I  never  heard  it. 
Tell  Aunt  Helen  I  will  be  down  in  three  minutes.  " 

Thus  civilly  dismissed,  Miss  Macgregor  goes — more  and 
more  at  a  loss  to  understand  Miss  Owenson. 

"  Her  very  dearest  friend  !  Ah  !  but  I  don't  believe  in  the 
very  dearest  masculine  friends  of  handsome  young  heiresses. 
But  whether  engaged  to  the  baronet  or  not,  Dick  has'nt  a  chance, 
not  the  ghost  of  a  chance — of  that  I  am  certain.  Not  that  his 
poverty  would  stand  in  his  way — she  is  just  one  of  those  foolish 
virgins  who  will  fall  in  love  with  a  beggar,  and  raise  him  to  the 
dignity  of  prince  consort,  and  consider  herself  and  her  money 
honored  by  his  lordly  acceptance.  Such  a  man  as  Lewis  Nolan, 
for  instance." 

Katherine  Macgregor*s  face  darkened  suddenly — perhaps  as 
heiress  of  a  million  it  was  a  folly  even  she  might  have  been 
capable  of. 

Dinner  over,  the  young  ladies  dressed  for  Mrs.  Graham's 
reception.  Miss  Owenson,  as  has  been  said,  did  not  yet  wear 
colors,  but  black  velvet  and  point  lace  can  be  made  a  very 
effective  toilet  when  crowned  by  a  pearl  pale  face,  and  feathery 
blonde  hair.  "Too  matronly,"  Katherine  Macgregor  pronoun- 
ces the  velvet ;  but  the  rich  sable  folds  falling  about  the  tall,  slight 
figure,  the  square,  classic  con-age,  the  white  tuberoses  and  ste,>h- 
aiiotis,  would  have  delighted  the  eye  of  an  artist.  Miss  Mac- 
givgor  herself  shines  in  the  azure  resplendence  of  her  jilver  blue 
siik  and  pearls  ;  brunette  as  she  is,  some  shades  of  blue,  by  gaa 
light,  she  finds  extremely  becoming. 


2/2  TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 

"  A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
Ana  most  divinely  fair." 

quotes  Dick  Macgregor,  as  Miss  Owenson  comes  forward,  her 
black  velvet  sweeping  behind  her.  "  By  George,  Sydney,  you 
look  like  a  princess  royal  or  something  of  that  sort.  Only 
black  and  white  too  !  How  do  you  do  it  ?  The  other  girls  pile 
on  the  colors  of  the  rainbow — Katie  among  'em  ;  but  you  have 
a  look  somehow,  a  general  get-up — Dick  waves  his  hands, 
vaguely  hopeless  of  expressing  his  meaning  in  words.  Sydney 
laughs,  and  takes  his  arm — his  sister  cries  out  in  indignant 
protest. 

"  Only  black  and  white  indeed.  Only  black  velvet  and  point 
lace — a  costume  fit  for  a  young  duchess.  That  is  how  men  are 
deceived.  Every  one  of  them  at  the  conversazione  will  echo 
Dick's  cry — '  only  black  and  white — modest  simplicity  itself — 
how  economical-ly  and  tastefully  the  heiress  dresses,  what  an 
example  for  these  gaudy,  extravagant  butterflies  around  her.' 
And  all  the  time  Miss  Owenson's  costume  will  be  far  and  away 
the  richest  and  most  costly  in  the  room.  There  will  be  nothing 
like  that  point,"  says  Katherine,  with  a  sigh  of  bitterest  envy, 
"at  Mrs.  Graham's  conversazione  to  night." 

"  Hang  Mrs.  Graham's  conversazione,"  growls  brother  Dick  ; 
"hang  all  such  shams  with  their  fine  French  names.  It  is  a 
cheap  and  nasty  substitute  for  a  decent  party ;  instead  of  a 
German  band,  and  a  sit-down  supper,  scandal  and  weak  tea." 

"  The  tea  need  not  be  weak  unless  you  wish  it — the  scandal 
I  acknowledge,"  interposes  his  sister. 

"  Sitting  ranged  around  the  walls,  a  crowd  of  guys,"  proceeds 

.Dick,  in  a  disgusted  tone,  "  tea  handed  round  in  Liliputian  cups, 

and  all  the  guys  jawing  in  pairs,  as  a  matter  of  duty.     Talk  and 

tea — that's  what    Mrs.  Graham's   conversazione    comes    to    in 

plain  English  ;  and  hang  all  such  shams,  I  say  again." 

"Then  why  come,  my  deai  boy?"  inquires  Miss  Owenson  ; 
"  why  make  a  martyr  of  yourself,  why  immolate  yourself  in  the 
flower  of  your  youth  and  loveliness,  a  victim  to  brotherly  duty? 
Why  not  express  those  natural  sentiments  of  your  manly  heart 
at  dinner,  and  Aunt  Helen  would  have  matronized  us,  or  even 
poor,  dear  Uncle  Grif  might  have  been  reluctantly  forced  into 
the  breach.  Anything  to  have  spared  you." 

"  The  cousin  with  whom  I  go  will  make  even  Mrs.  Graham's 
talk  and  tea  go  down  with  relish,"  says  Dick,  gallantly  ;  "  and 
if  Nolan's  there — as  he  is  pretty  sure  to  be — we  will  have  some 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER.  273 

decent  music,  at  least.  I'd  rather  hear  that  fellow  sing  than 
Brignoli." 

•'Mr.  Nolan  is  musical,  then  ?  "  says  Sydney.  "  He  has  the 
face  of  a  man  who  can  sing." 

"  And  men  who  sing  at  evening  tea  parties,  like  Tom  Moore, 
are  flukes  as  a  general  thing,"  answers  Dick.  Nolan's  an 
exception,  however.  He  never  does  sing,  except  at  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham's, and  whether  he  sings  or  is  silent,  he  is  as  good  a  fellow  as 
ever  breathed.  He  was  out  with  us  the  first  year,  and  fought 
like  a  brick.  He  has  just  Irish  blood  enough  in  him  to  make 
fighting  come  naturally,  I  suppose." 

For  be  it  known  that  Dick  Macgregor — Captain  Macgregor, 
to  the  world  at  large — is  only  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  for  a  two 
months'  furlough,  and  his  regiment  awaits  him  down  in  Virginia. 
It  is  the  second  year  of  the  "  Unpleasantness,"  and  Dick  Mac- 
gregor went  out  with  the  first. 

"Mr.  Nolan's  one  talent,  leaving  his  forensic  abilities  out  of 
the  question,"  says  Katherine,  "  is  a  passion  for  music.  As  a 
boy,  I  remember,  he  would  come  in  and  sit  down  at  the  piano, 
play  harmonious  chords  intuitively,  and  rattle  off  street  tunes 
by  ear.  As  he  grew  older,  Uncle  Grif,  exceedingly  vain  of  his 
boy's  abilities,  had  him  taught.  Did  I  tell  you  that  Uncle  Gril 
adopted  him,  in  a  measure,  when  ten  years  old,  and  that  to  him 
Lewis  Nolan  owes  it  that  he  is  a  promising  young  lawyer  to- 
day ?  He  is  also  organist  of  St.  Ignatius',  where  you  and  I 
must  go  some  Sunday,  Syd,  and  hear  one  of  the  finest  choirs  in 
the  city." 

They  have  reached  Mrs.  Graham's,  and  enter  with  a  flock  of 
other  guests.  Most  of  them  Miss  Macgregor  knew.  Friendly 
greetings  are  exchanged,  and  introductions  performed  on  the 
way  up- stairs. 

"  1  hope  the  evening  won't  drag,"  Katherine  remarks,  as  she 
adjusts  her  ribbons  and  laces.  "  Dick  is  right ;  as  a  rule  this 
sort  of  thing  is  slow.  Talk  and  tea  are  not  the  most  stimulating 
amusements  on  earth.  If  you  feel  bored,  Sydney,  be  sure  you 
let  me  know,  and  we  will  leave  early." 

The  guests  had  nearly  all  arrived,  when  they  descend  and 
make  their  way  to  their  hostess'  side.  Mrs.  Graham  is  a  large, 
and  cheerful  looking  lady,  in  mauve  silk — that  "refuge  of  the 
destitute " — addicted  to  embonpoint,  good  nature,  and  colors 
that  "swear,"  as  the  French  phrase  it.  Katherine  Macgregor1  a 
face  is  known  to  every  man  and  woman  in  the  room  ;  bat  who 
is  the  tall,  regal-looking  blonde,  so  lovely  of  face,  so  distin- 

12* 


274  TALK  ANL    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 

guished  of  manner.  And  when  the  whisper  goes  round  that  she 
is  the  Miss  Owenson,  the  rich  Miss  Owenson  just  returned  from 
Europe,  Miss  Owenson  becomes  the  star  of  the  assembly,  and 
Miss  Macgregor  and  Mrs.  Graham  are  besieged  with  pressing 
aspirants  for  introductions.  It  grows  a  bore  in  time,  but  Syd- 
ney shows  no  sign  of  boredom  in  her  gracious  face.  Still  it  is 
something  of  a  relief  when  she  finds  herself  in  a  quiet  corner, 
with  Dick  devotedly  beside  her,  and  free  for  a  moment  from  her 
court. 

"  Oh,  Solitude,  where  are  thy  charms  ?  "  says  Dick.  "  '  Oh 
for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness,'  where  talk  and  tea  are  un- 
known. Let's  sit  down  here,  Sydney,  and  be  a  comfortable 
couple.  Here  is  a  book  of  engravings,  they  always  turn 
over  books  of  engravings  in  novels,  if  you  notice.  Let  us 
live  a  chapter  out  of  a  novel,  and  turn  over  the  engravings." 

He  thinks,  as  he  says  it,  that  there  is  not  a  picture  of  them 
all  as  fair  and  sweet  as  Sydney  herself — a  slight  flush  on  her 
clear,  pale  cheek,  the  golden  hair  flashing  against  the  rich 
blackness  of  her  robe. 

"Your  friend  Mr.  Nolan  is  not  here,"  she  says,  as  Dick 
spread  out  his  big  portfolio,  preparatory  to  examining  the  en- 
gravings. 

"  Isn't  he  ?  Very  likely  not.  You  see  he  is  a  young  man  of 
uncommonly  high-toned  notions — poor  and  proud,  as  they 
phrase  it.  As  Katie  says,  he  owes  all  he  has  to  Uncle  Grif. 
His  mother  and  sister  are  dressmakers,  I  believe,  and  as  yet 
Nolan  hasn't  achieved  any  distinction  worth  speaking  of.  He 
never  goes  anywhere ;  his  voice  would  open  no  end  of  doors, 
but  he  won't  be  asked  for  his  voice.  He  makes  an  exception, 
somehow,  in  Mrs.  Graham's  favor.  Ah  !  there  he  is  now." 

The  piano  in  the  back  drawing-room  had  been  going  industri- 
ously since  their  entrance  ;  but  now  a  new  hand,  the  hand  of  a 
master,  touched  the  keys,  and  the  grand,  grateful  notes  were  won- 
drously  different  from  the  young  lady-like  jingle  that  had  gone  be- 
fore. This  was  the  touch  of  a  musician,  and  the  instrument  seemed 
to  know  and  respond.  "Za  ci  Darem"  was  what  Mr.  Nolan 
«ang  and  played  ;  and  the  pictures  were  untouched,  and  Diclf 
and  Sydney  sat  absorbedly  listening.  It  was  a  powerful  tenoi; 
with  that  veiled  sympathetic  vibration,  that  undertone  of  pathos 
in  its  swee'ness,  that  reaches  the  heart. 

"I  don't  care  for  Italian  opera,"  says  Captain  Macgregor; 
"  it's  a  deuce  of  a  bore,  as  a  rule  ;  but  I  like  that.  La  ci  Darem 
la  mano,  he  is  singing  now.  Niceish  voice,  isn't  it." 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER.  275 

"  Niceish  is  a  ney  adjective  to  me,"  responds  Sydney,  laugh- 
ing, "  and  one  that  hardly  applies.  Mr.  Nolan  is  the  fortunate 
possessor  of  one  of  the  finest  tenors  I  ever  heard,  and  I  have 
heard  some  good  tenors — Sims  Reeves  was  one.  There,  he  has 
finished :  how  sweet,  how  tender  those  lower  notes  were. 
Surely  they  will  not  let  him  stop." 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  stingy — when  he  does  sing  he  does  sing  ; 
nothing  niggardly  about  him.  I  have  heard  him  rattle  through 
a  whole  opera  bouffe — shriek  like  the  soprano,  growl  like  the 
bass  father,  shout  like  the  chorus — take  'em  all  off  capitally,  I 
assure  you.  There,  he  is  singing  again  :  let's  follow  the  crowd, 
and  see  him." 

They  leave  the  table  and  make  their  way  to  the  other  room, 
where  Mr.  Nolan,  in  regulation  evening  dress,  sits  at  the  piano, 
and  where  Katherine  Macgregor  leans  gracefully  against  the 
instrument,  fluttering  her  fan  and  listening  with  downcast 
eyes. 

"  As  a  rule,"  observes  Dick,  in  a  profound  tone,  "  it's  a  pain- 
ful spectacle — a  very  painful  spectacle — to  watch  a  music  man. 
The  contortions  of  his  facial  muscles,  the  hideous  extent  to  which 
he  opens  his  mouth,  the  dislocating  way  in  which  he  flings  back 
his  head,  the  inspired  idiot  style  in  which  he  rolls  his  eyeballs  up 
to  the  chandelier,  the  frenzied  manner  in  which  elbows  and  fingers 
fly,  are  trying  didoes  to  witness  without  a  still  small  feeling  of  dis- 
gust. But  Nolan  doesn't  contort,  doesn't  roll  his  eyeballs,  doesn't 
look  like  a  moonstruck  lunatic,  and  doesn't  open  his  mouth 
even  to  any  very  disgusting  extent.  Brava  ! "  Mr.  Macgregor 
gently  pats  his  kidded  paws.  "  Very  good — very  good  indeed  ! 
We  will  take  your  whole  stock  at  the  same  price." 

Mr.  Nolan  concludes  his  second  song  and  makes  an  attempt 
to  get  away,  but  he  is  besieged  by  soft  pleadings,  and  Kathe- 
rine Macgregor  gives  him  one  of  those  long,  tender  glances 
from  beneath  her  sable  lashes  that  have  done  such  telling  exe- 
cution in  her  time. 

"  Just  one  other — in  English  this  time — a  ballad  for  me." 

"  For  you?"  repeats  Mr.  Nolan,  a  laugh  in  his  dark  eyes, 
but  his  lips  grave.  "  If  I  were  hoarse  as  a  raven,  put  in  that 
way,  refusal  would  be  an  impossibility.  Something  in  English, 
something  pathetic,  of  course.  Will  this  do  ?  " 

He  plays  a  jaunty,  tripping,  waltz-like  symphony,  into 
which  his  voice  blends  in  an  air  that  exactly  suits  the  words, 
%  mischievous  light  in  the  eyes  he  keeps  on  her  eagef 
face: 


2 76  TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A   LETTER. 

"  My  eye  !  how  I  love  you, 
You  sweet  little  dove,  you  ! 
There's  no  one  above  you, 

Most  beautiful  Kitty, 

"  So  glossy  your  hair  is, 
Like  a  sylph  or  a  fairy's, 
And  your  neck,  I  declare,  is 

Exquisitely  pretty. 

"  Quite  Grecian  your  nose  is, 
And  your  cheeks  are  like  roses, 
So  delicious — oh,  Moses  ! 

Surpassingly  sweet  ! 

"  Not  the  beauty  of  tulips, 
Nor  the  taste  or  mint-juleps, 
Can  compare  with  your  two  lips, 

Most  beautiful  Kate. 

"  And  now,  dearest  Kitty, 
It's  not  very  pretty, 
Indeed  it's  a  pity 

To  keep  me  in  sorrow  : 

"  So,  if  you'll  but  chime  in, 

We'll  have  done  with  our  rhymin', 
Swap  Cupid  for  Hymen, 

And  be  married  to-morrow." 

A  low  murmur  of  laughter  and  applause  follows,  and 
Katherine  Macgregor  actually  flushes  under  his  eyes. 

"  And  if  he  really  asked  her  it  might  go  hard  with  the 
chances  of  Vanderdonck,"  muttered  Dick  ;  "  but  no,  our  artless 
Katherine's  heart  will  never  run  away  with  her  head." 

"Mr.  Nolan  has  an  old  tendresse,  then,  for  Kate?"  Sydney 
asks,  carelessly.  "  I  half  thought  so  this  afternoon. 

"  By  no  means.  He  certainly  has  an  old  tendresse,  some- 
thing more  than  a  tendresse,  and  I  doubt  if  he  is  quite  over  it 
yet,  for " 

Dick  does  not  finish  his  sentence,  for  the  subject  of  it  arises 
from  his  seat,  sees  them,  and  approaches.  As  he  looks  now, 
warmth  in  his  dark  face,  animation  in  the  large  gray  eyes, 
a  smile  on  the  grave  lips,  Sydney  wonders  to  see  that  he  is 
handsome. 

"  That  was  all  very  delightful  indeed,  old  boy,"  is  Dick's 
greeting.  "Why  weren't  we  all  born  with  black  eyelashes  or 
tenor  voices,  or  both,  and  be  the  centre  of  such  a  group  ot 


TALK  AMD    TEA— AND  A   LETTER.  277 

adoring  angels  as  you  are  wherever  you  go  ?  Miss  Owenson 
and  I  have  been  listening  entranced  in  the  background — yot 
know  my  cousin,  by  the  way,  I  think." 

"1  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Owenson  this  afternoon," 
says  Mr.  Nolan,  with  that  very  genial  smile  of  his.  "  Apro- 
pos, Miss  Owenson,  you  have  been  the  means  of  making  very 
happy  one  poor  fellow  who  has  not  been  used  to  over-much 
happiness — Von  Ette — the  most  excitable  of  living  beings  ;  he 
nearl)  expired  with  ecstasy  when  I  told  him  of  your  admira- 
tion of  '  Sintram,'  and  your  intention  of  purchasing  it.  He  flew 
to  the  studio  on  the  instant,  had  it  packed,  and  sent,  and  you 
will  find  it  at  home  before  you  upon  your  return." 

"  Then  I  have  been  fortunate,  indeed,"  Sydney  responds,  "  if 
in  giving  pleasure  to  myself  I  have  given  pleasure  to  another. 
Mr.  Von  Ett6  is  destined  to  win  far  higher  praise  than  any  poor 
appreciation  of  mine." 

"  I  doubt  if  he  will  ever  value  any  more  highly.  Miss  Owen 
son,"  he  says,  abruptly,  "I  am  afraid  my  manner,  my  words, 
must  have  offended  you.  The  thought  that  it  may  be  so  has 
troubled  me  more  than  I  can  tell.  It  is  a  subject  upon  which 
I  feel  deeply,  and  one  which  is  likely  to«carry  me  away.  Pray, 
forgive  me." 

"  Is  he  in  love  with  this  Mrs.  Harland,  I  wonder  ? "  thinks 
Miss  Owenson.  "  Was  that  what  Dick  meant  ?  " 

"  The  apology  is  needless,"  she  says,  cordially.  "  There 
was  no  offence — how  could  there  be  ?  1  never  thought  of  it 
after." 

The  dark  gravity  of  the  afternoon  overspread  his  face  again 
— the  smile  vanished.  What  a  strong,  thoughtful,  intellectual 
face  it  was,  the  girl  thought.  What  a  good  face,  if  she  were  any 
judge  of  physiognomy. 

This  clever  Mr.  Nolan,  with  his  charming  voice,  a  thing  that 
will  make  its  way  to  a  woman's  foolish  fancy  sooner  than  more 
solid  qualities,  and  his  profound  convictions,  was  beginning  to 
interest  her.  Dick  had  been  summoned  by  some  fair  enslaver, 
and  had  reluctantly  obeyed.  Mr.  Nolan  and  Miss  Owenson 
had  slowly  been  making  their  way  to  the  front  drawing-room 
while  they  talked,  and  Sydney  resumed  her  seat  by  the  table 
and  the  engravings.  Mr.  Nolan  took  the  vacant  seat  by  her 
side,  still  wearing  that  earnest  look. 

"I  am  glad  that  my  words  did  not  trouble  you.  Yours  most 
certainly  have  troubled  me."  Sydney  looks  at  him  in  surprise. 
"  Yes,  Miss  Owensoa,  troubled  me  :  for  if  uiy  convictions  were 


Z78  TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 

not  with  Mrs.  Harland,  most  assuredly  I  would  not  plead  hei 
case.  I  have  conscientious  notions  about  this  sort  of  tiling 
that  are  exceedingly  unprofessional,  I  know — notions  I  will 
never  outlive.  But  that  Mrs.  Harland  is  a  murderess,  I  will  not, 
cannot  believe." 

"  Not  with  intent,  perhaps " 

"  Not  at  all,  Miss  Ovvenson.  See  !  for  years  her  life  with  this 
man  was  a  daily  and  hourly  martyrdom.  He  starved  her,  he 
insulted  her — he  was  all  the  worst  husband  can  be  to  the  most 
helpless  wife.  She  bore  it  patiently,  submissively ;  she  was 
friendless,  poor,  and  alone — for  years  she  endured  it.  One 
day  he  comes  home  half  drunk,  lays  his  revolver  on  the  table, 
is  more  brutal  than  usual,  offers  her  an  insult,  devilish  in  its 
atrocity.  It  maddens  her.  Hardly  conscious  of  what  she 
is  doing — goaded  beyond  endurance — she  lifts  the  pistol,  fires, 
and  he  falls'dead.  She  had  not  meant  to  kill ;  without  thought, 
hardly  knowing  what  she  does  do,  she  kills  him.  Is  this 
murder  ?  " 

Sydney  is  silent  ;  his  suppressed  vehemence  almost  frightens 
her.  How  interested  he  is  in  this  Mrs.  Harland  !  Does  he 
mean  to  free  her,  and  marry  her  after  ? 

"  She  is  filled  with  a  remorse,  a  despair,  an  anguish  I  never 
saw  equalled,"  he  goes  on.  "  How  she  lives  or  keeps  her  reason 
is  more  than  I  can  understand.  If  she  could  give  her  life  to 
restore  his  she  would  give  it  thankfully,  joyfully.  Is  this  woman 
then  guilty  ?  Does  the  crime  of  murder  lie  at  her  door  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know,"  Sydney  says,  with  a  look  of  distress. 
"  No,  surely  not.  And  yet  it  is  an  awful  thing — whether  by 
accident,  by  passion,  or  by  intention — to  take  a  human  life. 

"  Awful  !  Great  Heaven  !  yes,"  he  says,  in  a  voice  so  thrill- 
ing that  Sydney  looks  at  him  in  ever-increasing  wonder ! 

Surely  he  must  love  this  Mrs.  Harland,  else  why  the  passion- 
ate agony  of  that  whisper  ? 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  she  thinks;  "  it  is  hard  on  him.  He  deserves 
something  better  than  to  care  for  a  woman  whose  hands  are  red 
with  her  husband's  blood." 

There  is  a  pause.  Sydney  turns  over  the  pictures  without 
seeing  them,  conscious  of  a  dawning  and  strong  interest  in  this 
man.  He  rests  his  forehead  on  his  hand,  so  dark  a  look  in  his 
face  that  she  absolutely  wonders  if  this  be  the  same  man  who  a 
few  minutes  ago  sang  laughingly  a  comic  song.  That  he  should 
keep  his  levity  for  them,  his  earnestness  for  her  is  a  subtle 
flattery  that  conquers  her  as  no  other  flattery  could. 


TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER.  279 

"  Surely  my  foolish  opinions  can  have  no  weight  with  you, 
Mr.  Nolan,  no  power  to  pain  you,"  she  says,  very  gently.  "  If 
so  I  am  indeed  sorry.  It  shall  teach  me  to  be  less  hasty  and 
presumptuous  in  proffering  opinions  for  the  future.  In  the 
sight  of  Heaven  I  cannot  believe  your  friend  is  guilty  of  this 
dreadful  crime,  and  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  get  a  verdict." 

"  My  friend,"  he  says,  and  he  lifts  his  head,  and  a  smile  breaks 
up  the  dark  thoughtfulness  of  his  face,  "I  have  not  seen  Mrs. 
Harland  three  times  in  my  life  :  after  the  trial  I  shall  probably 
never  see  her  again  while  I  live.  I  am  interested  in  her  as  a 
woman  who  has  suffered  greatly  ;  but  it  is  whether  or  no  the 
guilt  of  murder  is  upon  her  that  centres  my  interest.  This  is 
what  I  would  give  worlds,  if  I  possessed  them,  yes,  worlds,  to 
know." 

"  He  is  not  in  love  with  this  unhappy  Mrs.  Harland,"  Sydney 
thinks.  "  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  like  him.  He  deserves  some- 
thing better.  He  looks  like  a  man 

"  '  To  bear  without  rebuke 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman.'  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  bored  you  mercilessly  with  this  tragic 
affair,"  he  goes  on,  his  face  and  tone  changing  ;  "  it  is  upper- 
most in  my  thoughts  ;  I  feel  it  so  deeply  ;  but  hold — I  am  sin- 
ning again  while  I  apologize.  Let  us  look  at  the  pictures ; 
Mrs.  Graham  never  affronts  her  guests'  intellect  by  offering 
poor  ones." 

They  look  at  the  pictures  accordingly,  and  talk  of  the  pic- 
tures. Miss  Owenson  has  seen  many  of  the  fine  old  paintings 
from  which  these  engravings  are  taken,  and  Mr.  Nolan  has  a 
cultivated  eye  and  taste,  and  a  keen  love  of  art.  They  talk  of 
Italy  and  Germany,  and  those  classic  foreign  lands  which  she 
has  seen  and  loved,  which  he  longs  but  never  expects  to  see. 
And  minutes  fly,  and  hours,  and  to  Sydney's  horror — for  she 
hates  anything  like  a  pronounced  tete-a-tete — their  conversation 
does  not  end  until  Katherine  seeks  her  side,  and  the  company 
rise  to  disperse. 

"  Really,"  Miss  Macgregor  says,  and  if  there  is  a  fine  shade  of 
irony  in  her  tone  Sydney  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  detect  it, 
"  for  two  people  quarrelling  fiercely  at  their  first  meeting,  you 
seem  to  have  got  on  well  with  Mr.  Nolan.  Were  you  quarrelling 
again,  my  dear,  or  making  up,  and  was  I  not  a  true  prophetess  ?  " 

"A  true  prophetess  !     What  did  you  predict  ?  "  asks  Sydney, 


28o  TALK  AND    TEA— AND  A  LETTER. 

with  equal  carelessness.  "  Mr.  Nolan  and  I  neither  qnarrellcj 
nor  made  up,  and  I  have  to  thank  him  for  spending  a  very  pleas- 
ant evening.  If  I  have  a  weakness  it  is  for  men  of  intellect." 

"  And  you  don't  meet  them  every  day.  Poor  Dick  !  "  laughs 
Dick's  sister.  So  talk  and  tea  are  not  so  utterly  flavorless  after 
all,  belle  cousine" 

"  If  the  talking  is  done  by  Mr.  Nolan — no,"  retorts  Sydney, 
with  spirit. 

"Don't  excite  yourself,"  says  Miss  Macgregor.  "I  have 
heard  before  that  Lewis  Nolan  improves  on  acquaintance. 
Does  he  not  sing  divinely  ?  Has  he  not  a  thoroughbred  look 
for  one  with  so  few  opportunities  ?  Ah  !  what  a  pity  he  is  so 
poor." 

"  '  Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing  yet  hath  all,'  " 

quotes  Sydney.  "  What  would  you  ?  Men  cannot  expect  to 
have  money,  and  brains,  and  divine  voices.  For  my  own  part, 
all  the  men  I  ever  found  worth  talking  to,  ever  was  interested  in, 
were  men  without  a  sou." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  interested  in  Mr.  Nolan  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Sydney,  flinging  back  her  head,  and  accepting 
the  challenge. 

"  And  only  in  poor  men  !  Sir  Harry,  I  have  heard,  is  worth 
twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  have  a 
baronet  for  a  cousin-in-law,  after  all.  Now,  now !  don't  freeze 
into  stateliness,  Syd.  I  don't  mean  anything — I  never  do  mean 
anything.  Come." 

Dick,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  look  ing  depressed  and  unhappy, 
offers  Sydney  his  arm.  Mr.  Nolan,  who  stands  talking  cheerfully 
to  him,  does  duty  for  his  sister. 

"  You  never  come  to  see  us  now,"  the  couple  in  front  heard 
Katherine  say,  in  a  plaintive  voice.  ''  Have  you  vowed  a  vow 
to  honor  Mrs.  Graham  alone  with  your  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  Mrs.  Graham  looks  upon  my  friendship 
in  the  light  of  an  honor.  It  is  a  new  idea,  however,  and  I  shall 
inquire." 

"  That  is  not  an  answer  to  my  question.  Why  do  you  not 
come  to  see  us  as — as  you  used  ?  " 

"  As  I  used  ?  "  Mr.  Nolan  lifts  his  eyebrows.  "  Used  I  ever  ? 
I  have  no  time  for  dangerous  delights.  I  have  to  work  '  from 
early  morn  'til  dewy  eve '  for  my  daily  bread  and  butter.'' 

"  Dangerous  delights  ?  "  says  Miss  Macgr,egor  with  an  artless 
upward  glance.  "  VVhat  do  you  mean  by  that?" 


TALK  AND    TEA—AXD  A  LETTER.  281 

"  Do  I  really  need  to  explain,  Miss  Macgregor  ?"  retoits  Mr. 
Nolan,  looking  down  into  the  upturned  dark  eyes. 

"  Miss  Macgregor?  —  it  used  to  be  Katie,"  says  Katie,  anrl  in 
tl>e  low  voice  there  is  a  tremor,  either  real  or  well  assumed. 

"  Oh,  by  George  !  let  us  get  on,"  says  Dick,  with  a  face  of 
such  utter  disgust  that  Sydney  laughs.  She  has  been  trying  to 
get  on  herself,  for  the  last  twc  minutes,  out  of  earshot  of  this 
conversation,  and  succeeds  so  well  that  Mr.  Nolan's  response 
to  Katie's  last  is  inaudible.  Katie's  cheeks  are  slightly  flushed 
though,  as  she  reaches  the  carriage,  and  the  smile  on  her 
lips  shows  it  has  been  to  order. 

"  1  wish  to  Heaven,  Katie,"  growls  Dick,  "when  you  make 
love  to  fellows,  you  wouldn't  do  it  quite  so  loudly.  Old  Van- 
dcrdonck  himself  —  deaf  as  an  adder  —  might  have  heard  you 
spooning  to  Lewis  Nolan,  if  he  had  been  there." 

"  Old  Vanderdonck  might  have  heard,  and  welcome,  my  gen- 
tle brother." 

"  And  if  you  think  Nolan's  to  be  taken  in  by  your  soft  sawder, 
you're  a  trirle  out  of  your  reckoning,  let  me  tell  you.  He  isn't 
an  old  bird,  Nolan  isn't,  but  he's  not  going  to-be  caught  with 
chaff." 

"  Dick,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  "  it  is  patent  to  the  dullest 
observer  that  the  attentions  of  Miss  Emma  Winton  have  been 
painfully  marked  ;  also,  that  five  cups  of  gunpowder  tea  do  not 
agree  with  your  digestive  organs.  Therefore  we  excuse  the 
rudeness  of  your  remarks,  and  prescribe  total  silence  for  the 
rest  of  the  drive  home." 

Dick  growls,  but  obeys  —  Katherine  is  the  ruling  spirit  of  the 
household. 

The  city  clocks  are  striking  two  when  Sydney  reaches  her 
room.  On  the  wall  hangs  "  Sin  tram."  She  greets  it  with  a 
smile  of  welcome,  and  the  likeness  to  Mr.  Nolan  does  not 
spoil  her  pleasure  in  looking  at  it,  as  she  has  feared.  On 
the  table  lies  a  letter  with  a  Canadian  postmark,  and  in  a 
stiff,  mercantile  hand.  She  turns  up  the  gas,  and  tears  it  open 
eagerly,  without  waiting  to  remove  her  wraps.  It  is  from  Mr. 
McKelpin,  in  answer  to  one  she  had  written  him  for  news  of 
b«r  lost  friend  Cyrilla  Hendrick. 

MONTREAL,  Nov.  23^,  18  —  . 
"  RESPECTED  Miss  :  " 


^  Sydney  smiles  ;  the  "  Respected  Miss"  is  so  like  what 
poor  Cyrilla  used  to  tell  her  of  her  middle-aged  Scottish  suitor 


282        A   BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A   DINNER. 

"Yours  of  the  iyth  inst.  came  to  hand  yesterday,  and  con- 
tents  duly  noted.  In  reply,  I  have  to  say  I  know  nothing  of 
the  present  whereabouts  of  the  late  lamented  Miss  Dormer's 
niece.  On  the  day  before  my  return  to  this  city,  four  years  ago 
last  May,  she  left  by  train  direct  for  Boston.  I  made  inquiries 
concerning  her — advertised  for  her  in  the  Boston  papers,  and 
placed  a  certain  sum  of  money  at  her  disposal.  In  the  course 
of  the  following  week  I  received,  in  reply  to  my  advertisement, 
a  letter  from  the  head  physician  of  one  of  the  public  hospitals  of 
Boston.  A  young  lady  answering  the  Description,  from  Montreal, 
was  lying  very  ill  under  his  charge ;  some  mental  strain,  appar- 
ently, and  physical  exhaustion,  had  prostrated  her  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  ever  recover.  I  went 
to  Boston ;  I  saw  and  identified  her  (herself  unconscious),  and 
ordered  every  care  and  attention.  She  recovered  eventually, 
wrote  me  a  brief  note  of  acknowledgment,  and  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  quitted  the  hospital.  Since  then  I  have  neither 
seen  nor  heard  from  the  late  lamented  Miss  Dormer's  niece. 
This  is  all  I  have  to  communicate,  and  I  remain,  Respected  Miss, 
yours  to  command,  DONALD  MCKELPIN." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A   BASKET   OF    FLOWERS    AND    A   DINNER. 

CATHERINE,"    says  Mrs.   Macgregor,  "do  lay  down 
that  book,  get  off  that  sofa,  dress,  and  go  down  town, 
match   this  fringe,  go  to   Fratoni's  for   ices,  and  to 
Greenstalk's  for  the  cut-flowers.     Do  you  hear?  " 
"  I  hear.     Anything  else  ?  " 

"And  make  haste.  Where  your  own  personal  gratification  is 
not  concerned,  Katherine,  I  must  say  you  are  unbearably  lazy. 

Here,  the  whole  forenoon  was  spent  in  bed " 

"  Did  you  really  expect  me  to  get  up,  and  go  to  matins  at 
St.  Albans  after  dissipating  at  Mrs.  Graham's  until  two  this 
morning  ?" 

"  I  expect  very  little  of  you,  my  daughter,  that  will  put  you 
to  the  least  inconvenience.  I  know  of  old  how  useless  it  would 


f  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A   DINNER.          783 

IK  *o  *"<rpect  it.  Those  commissions  I  mentioned  must  be  dene 
ihn  a'\.-inoon.  My  dressmaker  is  at  a  dead-lock  for  the  fringe, 
Pe.  na\>*  you  expect  me — worn  out  as  I  am,  to  go  after  it  my- 
sek'  r  " 

'•  t>iessec\  are  they  who  expect  nothing — of  which  number  am 
I,''  reiorU  Miss  Katherine. 

She  has  b^en  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  family  sitting-room  during 
this  discussion,  a  provoking  drawl  in  her  voice — her  eye  never 
once  leaving  her  book.  In  an  arm-chair  by  the  window,  also 
reading,  an<2  in  a  dress  whose  faultless  neatness  is  a  striking 
contrast  to  her  cousin's,  sits  Miss  Owenson.  Mrs.  Macgregor, 
a  portly  matron,  with  a  frisette  of  glossy  darkness,  coldly  glim- 
mering blue  eye.  an  austere  Roman  nose,  a  thin,  severe  mouth, 
and  a  worried  and  anxious  air  generally,  looks  up  from  her  sew- 
ing to  regard  her  undutiful  daughter  with  an  angry  glance. 

"  Katherine,  will  you  or  will  you  not  get  up  and  go  down 
town  ?  " 

"  Best  of  mother,?,  I  would  much  rather  not.  The  day  is  cold 
and  disagreeable  ;  I  feel  dreadfully  sleepy  yet,  and  this  novel — 
Mr.  Van  Cyler*s,  mamma — is  thrillingly  interesting.  Send 
Susan." 

"Aunt  Helen,"  cries  Sydney,  starting  up,  "let  me  go.  I  will 
match  your  fringe,  and  deliver  your  other  messages  with  pleas- 
ure." 

Miss  Katherine  shrugs  her  shoulders,  and  smiles  sarcastically 
behind  her  book. 

"  Thank  you,  my  love,  I  cannot  think  of  troubling  you " 

"  It  will  be  no  trouble  ;  1  was  just  meditating  a  walk  on  my 
own  account — my  daily  constitutional,  you  know.  It  will  give 
me  pleasure  to  be  of  service  to  you." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear  ;  but  if  my  daughter  thinks  she  can  set 
me  9*.  defiance  after  this  fashion,  she  is  mistaken.  "Kathe- 
rine," and  the  cold  blue  eyes  light  and  flash,  "  put  down  that 
book  this  instant,  and  do  as  I  command  you." 

"When  my  mammy  takes  that  tone,"  says  Katherine,  with 
in  perturbable  good  temper,  and  addressing  her  remark  placidly 
to  Sydney,  "  I  know  better  than  to  disobey.  Let  us  see — match 
the  fringe — order  the  ices — see  to  the  flowers.  But  the  confec- 
tioner's and  the  fringe  stores  are  at  opposite  ends  of  the  town— 
can't  do  both  in  one  short,  dark  November  afternoon.  One  of 
them  must  go,  dearest  mother." 

"  You  and  Sydney  can  go  to  Greenstalk's  from  here,  then  she 
can  walk  over  to  Sixth  Avenue  and  match  the  fringe  while  you 


284        A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER. 

take  a  car  and  visit  Fretoni's,"  rapidly  and  concisely,  says  Mrs 
Macgregor. 

"  What  a  business-like  head  this  mater  of  ours  has.  Sydney  ! 
Pause,  wonder,  and  admire.  Very  well,  Mrs.  Macgregor — you 
shall  be  obeyed  to  the  letter ;  but  what  a  pang  it  costs  me  to 
give  up  Van  Cyler's  novel !  There  are  times  when  even  filial 
duty  is  a  painful  thing." 

Mrs.  Macgregor's  brow  cleared.  Sydney  laughed.  Kathe- 
rine's  habitual  manner  of  cheerful  impertinence  to  her  mother 
at  times  startled,  at  times  amused  her.  Real  impertinence  the 
girl  did  not  mean,  but  this  vapid  surface  manner  had  become 
second  nature.  The  young  girls  started  forth  together.  Sydney 
with  her  seal  jacket  buttoned  across  her  chest,  and  a  tall  black 
hat  and  plume.  The  day  was  cold,  gray,  and  overcast — windy, 
dusty,  and  supremely  unpleasant. 

"  I  feel  like  the  little  boy  who  thought  it  was  such  a  delight- 
ful thing  to  be  an  orphan,  and  do  as  he  liked,"  says  Katherine, 
bending  before  a  windy  gust.  *'  Poor  mamma,  she  works  and 
worries,  toils  and  troubles,  year  in,  year  out,  for  Dick,  and  me, 
too." 

"  When  you  are  Mrs.  Vanderdonck,  the  wife  of  the  million- 
aire, you  will  be  able  to  do  as  you  please,  with  a  whole  regiment 
of  lackeys  to  fly  at  their  lady's  bidding." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  A  millionaire  old  Vanderdonck 
is,  that  is  historical  :  and  that  he  intends  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him,  I  am  also  quite  certain  ;  but  about  the  lackeys  and  the 
liberty  I  have  my  doubts.  He  is  stingy  as  a  miser,  jealous  as 
a  Turk,  relentless  as  a  Nero,  his  inward  man  as  hideous  as  his 
outward.  What  a  happy  destiny  will  be  mine  as  Mrs.  Vander- 
donck !  " 

"  Don't  marry  him,  Katherine." 

"  And  go  to  the  dogs  with  mamma  and  Dick  ?  We  are  over 
head  and  ears  in  debt,  Sydney,  and  nothing  short  of  this  mar- 
riage can  save  us.  I  actually  wonder  that  mamma's  frisette 
does  not  turn  gray  with  all  the  struggling  she  has  to  keep  up 
appearances.  I  owe  it  to  her  to  tide  her  over  these  troubled 
waters.  Vanderdonck,  miser  as  he  is,  shall  pay  my  price  to 
the  last  farthing  before  he  puts  the  ring  on  my  finger.  It  shall 
be  a  clear  matter  of  money  from  first  to  last.  He  shall  give 
his  written  bond  to  pay  mamma's  debts,  and  settle  five  or  six 
thousand  a  year  on  me,  or  he  shall  never  call  me  wife.  If  1 
must  be  sold,  I  shall  fetch  as  good  a  price  as  I  can." 

Sydney  shuddered. 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER.          *8<; 

"  It  is  horrible.  It  seems  to  me  I  would  go  out  as  a  shop 
girl,  as,  a  servant,  sweep  a  crossing,  starve,  sooner  than  that." 

"  Yes,  I  daresay,"  Miss  Macgregor  retorts,  coolly ;  "  rich 
people  always  say  that.  They  would  work  their  fingers  to  the 
bone,  starve,  die,  sooner  than  degrade  themselves.  Unhappily 
I  have  no  talent  for  work.  1  can't  go  on  the  stage  and  become 
a  Ristori  in  a  night,  or  write  a  novel  and  become  famous,  as 
they  do  in  books.  Starvation  would  not  agree  with  me.  I  am 
something  of  an  epicure,  as  you  may  have  noticed,  and  dying 
• — ah  !  dying  is  something  I  never  want  to  think  of.  In  my 
place,  belle  cousine,  you  would  be  as  heartless,  as  mercenary, 
as  calculating  as  I  am.  In  my  place  you  would  marry  old 
Vanderdonck." 

"  Never  ! " 

"  Love  is  all  very  well,"  pursues  Katie,  a  hard,  cold  look, 
curiously  like  her  mother's,  crossing  her  face  and  ageing  it ;  "  it 
is  one  of  the  luxuries  of  life — life's  very  sweetest  luxury  per- 
haps ;  but  for  me  it  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  You  can  afford  it, 
can  fall  in  love  with  a  beggar  if  you  choose,  and  turn  him  into 
a  prince.  Oh !  Sydney  !  cousin  mine,  what  a  lucky  young 
woman  you  are.  This  is  Mr.  Greenstalk's." 

Baskets  and  bouquets  littered  the  counters  and  perfumed  the 
warm  air ;  wreaths  festooned  the  walls,  shrubs  stood  around  in 
pots.  A  damsel  in  attendance  behind  the  counter,  waiting  on 
the  one  customer  the  shop  contained,  a  gentleman  bending  over 
some  curious  foreign  plant,  his  back  towards  them. 

"  What  a  lovely  basket !  "  says  Katherine.    "  Look,  Sydney." 

It  was  a  small  flat  basket,  such  as  florists  use,  of  purest  white 
flowers,  camellias,  white  roses,  Japonicas,  stephanotis.  On  top 
lay  a  card,  having  this  legend  in  pencil,  and  in  a  man's  writing  : 
"  \\ITH  LOVE.  L."  And  whether  the  hand  struck  her  as  fa- 
miliar, or  something  in  the  back  view  of  the  man,  Miss  MacGreg- 
gor  turned,  and  looked  curiously  at  him. 

"  You  will  send  the  basket  the  first  thing,"  says  a  voice  she 
recognizes.  "  Here  is  the  address  ;  and  you  will  fasten  the 
card  I  have  laid  on  it  among  the  flowers.  Don't  fail." 

"  All  right,  sir;  it  shall  go  the  first  thing  to-morrow,"  cheer- 
fully responds  the  lady  in  waiting. 

"Look,  Sydney!"  says  Katherine;  and  Sydney  looks,  and 
sees  the  tall  form  and  dark  face  of  Lewis  Nolan.  He  pushes  a 
five-dollar  bill  to  the  shopwoman,  buttons  up  his  overcoat,  and 
with  an  absorbed  look  on  his  face  hurries  out  without  casting 
»  last  look  at  his  purchase,  or  a  first  look  at  the  two  ladies  be- 


286         A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A   DINNER. 

side  it.  "  Lewis  Nolan,  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  spending  five 
dollars  for  flowers  !  "  exclaims  Katherine,  aghast.  "Now  what 
does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  an- 
swers Sydney,  laughing.  "  Mr.  Nolan  shows  very  good  taste 
in  his  selection — that  is  the  only  opinion  I  have  on  the  subject." 

"With  love,"  pursues  Katherine,  "and  the  first  th.ng  to- 
morrow morning.  Whom  can  they  be  for  ?  Sydney,  I  shall 
ask." 

"  Katie  !  "   cries  Sydney,  indignantly. 

"  No,  I  shall  not.  But  whom  can  they  be  for  !  Is  he  really 
in  love  with  that  horrid  Mrs.  Harland  ?  " 

"  Are  you  concerned  in  knowing,  dear?  Mr.  Nolan  would 
feel  flattered  if  he  were  aware  how  deep  is  your  interest  in  him." 

"  Mr.  Nolan  would  not  feel  in  the  slightest  degree  flattered. 
Vanity,  the  predominant  weakness  of  his  sex,  is  not  his  weak- 
ness. But  he  cannot  be  as  poor  as  I  imagined  if  he  can  afford 
to  spend  five  dollars  in  flowers." 

"  Under  the  influence  of  the  tender  passion  a  man  may  be 
extravagant  to  the  extent  of  five  dollars,  and  still  be  pardoned," 
says  Miss  Owenson. 

The  flower  woman  approaches,  Miss  Macgregor  gives  her  va- 
rious orders  for  the  day  after  to  morrow,  which  are  duly  tran- 
scribed in  black  and  white,  and  the  two  girls  depart. 

"  I  wonder  who  the  flowers  are  for!"  is  Miss  Macgregor's 
thoughtful  remark  as  they  reach  the  street.  "  Sydney,  your  fas- 
tidious notions  are  decidedly  in  the  way.  I've  a  good  mind  to 
go  back  and  ask." 

Sydney  laughs  outright,  then  stops,  and  blushes,  for  a  gen- 
tleman, approaching  rapidly,  lifts  his  hat,  with  a  smile.  It  is 
Mr.  Nolan. 

"  Quand  on  parle  du  diable "  begins  Miss  Macgregor,  in 

execrable  French,  and  with  unruffled  coolness.  "  We  were  just 
talking  of  you.  We  saw  you  in  Greenstalk's,  ordering  flowers, 
but  you  never  deigned  to  notice  us." 

'•What  unpardonable  blindness!"  answers  the  gentleman. 
"I  am  on  my  way  back  to  Greenstalk's  ;  I  forgot  one  of  my 
gloves." 

"Your  floral  taste  is  excellent,  Mr.  Nolan,"  says  Katherine, 
mischievously.  "Your  big  bouquet  is  beautiful." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Yes,  it  is  pretty.  She  prefers  white 
flowers.  Cold,  is  it  not,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  "for  November?" 

"  You  dine  with  us,  do  you  not,  on  Friday  e  /ening  ?  "  inquires 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER.         287 

Katherine.  "  Mamma  sent  you  a  card,  I  know,  but  I  want  to 
add  a  verbal  invitation." 

*  "  Thanks,  very  much  ;  but  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  have  the 
pleasure.  I  am  very  busy,  Miss  Katie." 

"  You  are  never  too  busy  to  go  to  Mrs.  Graham's,  it  seems," 
says  Miss  Macgregor,  with  her  most  effective  and  best-practised 
pout.  "  1  insist  upon  your  coming.  That  stupid  trial  will 
surely  take  no  harm  for  being  laid  aside  one  evening." 

"You  are  most  kind,  and  I  am  most  grateful;  all  the 
same " 

He  pauses,  and  involuntarily,  unconsciously,  glances  at 
Miss  Owenson.  She  meets  that  glance  with  a  bewitching 
smile. 

I  "I  think  I  must  add  my  entreaties  to  Katherine's,"  she  says. 
"  I  should  very  much  like  to  hear  Korner's  Sword  Song  once 
more." 

"  You  will  come  ?  "  asks  Katherine. 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  replies  Mr.  Nolan,  flushing 
slightly.  "  Yes,  I  will  come." 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  the  cousins  go  on  their  way,  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  silence  broken  first  by  Sydney. 

"  What  a  great  deal  of  coaxing  your  Mr.  Nolan  takes.  Evi- 
dently the  honor  of  his  presence  is  not  to  be  lightly  be- 
stowed." 

i  "  But  he  yields  at  your  request,  dear,  not  mine,"  says  Katie, 
with  a  sudden  sharp  ring  in  her  voice.  And  for  a  moment  there 
is  silence  again. 

"  What  does  Katherine  Macgregor  mean  by  her  new  cordial- 
ity ?  "  thinks  Mr.  Nolan,  rather  ungraciously.  "  An  invitation, 
and  pressing  one  to  the  Macgregor*s  mansion  is  altogether  a 
new  distinction.  I  suppose  singing  to  amuse  the  company  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  What  a  noble  and  loving  face  that  is  ! "  But 
he  did  not  mean  Miss  Macgregor. 

The  cousins  parted  at  the  junction  of  Broadway  and  Grand 
Street,  Katherine  to  go  across  town,  Sydney  to  seek  Sixth 
Avenue,  and  match  the  fringe.  This  was  a  tedious  process,  and 
the  street  lamps  were  twinkling  in  the  gray  November  dusk 
before  it  was  concluded.  Fearless  in  most  things.  Sydney  yet 
had  a  nervous  dread  of  being  out  alone  in  the  streets  of  a  city 
af-jr  night-fall,  and  hailed  a  passing  car,  which  she  knew  would 
convey  her  to  within  a  couple  of  blocks  of  home. 

The  car  was  filled,  not  a  vacant  seat,  but  a  very  youthful 
gentleman  sprang  up  as  if  galvanized  at  sight  of  a  beautiful 


288         A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A   DINNER. 

young  lady,  and  with  a  smile  and  a  little  bow  Sydney  thankfully 
took  his  place.  At  the  next  corner  the  car  again  stopped,  and 
an  elderly  woman,  with  a  large  and  heavy  market  basket  on 
her  arm,  got  in.  She  looked  tired,  and  proceeded  to  hang  her- 
self up  by  the  strap.  The  double  row  of  men  glanced  over  the 
tops  of  their  papers,  saw  only  an  old  woman,  rather  shabby  of 
aspect,  and  dived  back  again.  Evidently  she  was  to  be  allowed 
to  stand,  and  Sydney  realizing  it,  arose  and  proffered  her 
place. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you — no,"  the  woman  said.  "  I  could  not 
think  of  it,  my  dear  young  lady.  Keep  your  seat." 

"You  are  tired  and  I  am  not;  I  don't  mind  standing. 
Oblige  me  by  sitting  down." 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  tired,"  the  woman  said,  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief, sinking  down  ;  but  it's  too  bad  to  make  you  stand." 

"  I  have  not  far  to  go  ;  that  is,  I  think  not.  How  far  is  it  to 
th  street  ?  " 

"  Fully  fifteen  blocks  ;  too  long  for  you  to  stand,  I  ought  not 
to  have  taken  your  seat." 

"  I  won't  have  to  stand;  just  wait  and  see,"  whispered  Syd- 
ney, with  an  arch  smile  ;  and  as  she  said  it  the  man  beside  the 
old  lady  got  up,  with  a  bashful  "  Here,  miss,"  and  suspended 
himself  in  mid-air. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  says  Sydney,  with  a  subdued  laugh. 
"Virtue  is  its  own  reward." 

"  An,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  young  and  handsome,"  answers 
her  new  acquaintance. 

Miss  Owenson  glanced  at  her  and  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  must  have  been  handsome  in  her  day,  also.  It  was  a  kindly 
and  matronly  face,  with  dark,  gentle  eyes,  and  snow-white 
hair. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  when  we  get  to th  street,"  Sydney 

said.  "  I  am  almost  a  stranger  in  New  York,  and  don't  want 
to  get  belated.  What  uncomfortable  conveyances  these  street 
cars  are." 

She  chatted  with  her  chance  acquaintance  until  her  street  was 
reached,  then  with  a  smiling  "  good-bye,"  got  out  and  walked 
rapidly  into  Madison  Avenue,  and  her  aunt's  house. 

On  Friday  night  Mrs.  Macgregor  gave  a  dinner  party  for  the 
special  delectation  of  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  There  were  but 
seven  or  eight  guests  in  all,  and  Mr.  Nolan  made  one  of  the 
number. 

"  Although,  really,  what  you  want  to  ask  that  young  man  for, 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS  AND  A  DINNER.         289 

I  cannot  understand.  It  is  all  nonsense  having  him  here. 
These  *ort  of  people  should  keep  their  place.  I  can't  see  what 
yim  wa  it  him  for,  Katherine." 

"C<o't  you,  mamma?  'There  are  more  things  in  Reaven 
and  eaah,  Horatio,  than  are  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophy.' — 
Perhap  $  I  want  to  flirt  with  this  poor  young  man  and  make  Mr. 
Vand^f  ionck  jealous.  Is  not  that  a  laudable  object  ?  " 

"M>.  Vanderdonck  knows  you  well  enough  not  to  be  jeal- 
ous of  a  pauper,  my  daughter.  And  I  do  hope,  Katherine, 
you  wi  1  manage  to  make  him  speak  soon,  for  these  entertain- 
ments I  can  not  afford." 

"  Poor,  dear  mamma  !  Well,  never  mind  :  when  the  five 
thousand  a  year  are  settled  on  me  you  shall  have  half  for  life." 

Miss  Macgregor  certainly  did  flirt  with  Mr.  Nolan,  and  as 
certainly  succeeded  in  causing  Mr.  Vanderdonck  to  scowl  with 
malignant  blackness,  as  they  reversed  the  usual  rule,  the  gen- 
tleman singing  and  the  lady  bending  devotedly  by  his  side  and 
turning  his  music. 

But  at  last  Miss  Macgregor  deserted  him  for  her  Auld  Robin 
Grey,  and  Mr.  Nolan  sought  out  the  owner  of  the  "  noble  and 
lovely  "  face,  and  lingered  in  its  vicinity  until  the  hour  of  de- 
parture. They  seemed  to  find  endless  subjects  in  common, 
those  two — literature,  art,  music,  travels ;  their  conversation 
never  seemed  to  flag. 

"  Decidedly,  Mr.  Nolan  improves  on  acquaintance,"  thought 
Miss  Owenson,  en  route  to  bed  ;  "  it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to 
hear  him." 

"To  know  her  is  a  liberal  education,"  quotes  Mr.  Nolan, 
wending  his  homeward  way.  "  What  a  very  excellent  thinking- 
machine  there  is  behind  that  Madonna  face.  How  poor  Von 
Ette  would  rave  of  its  beauty;  how  he  would  delight  to  paint  it. 

*'  And  if  any  painter  drew  her 
He  would  paint  her  unaware, 
With  a  halo  round  her  hair." 

"  What  a  contrast  she  is  to  that  dark  daughter  of  the  earth, 
Kathe~ine  Macgregor." 

"3 


2 QO  A   LONG  TALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALT. 

CHAPTER  V. 

A    LONG   TALK    AND    A    LITTLE    WALK, 

JHE  dinner  was  a  pleasant  affair,  and  my  chat  with  Mr. 
Nolan  most  agreeable,  but,  after  all,  I  doubt  whether 
the  game  was  worth  the  candle." 

"  Miss  Owenson  makes  the  remark,  and  makes  it  to 
herself  alone.  She  holds  up  to  view  at  the  same  time,  a  mass  of 
rich  Chantilly  lace,  woefully  torn  and  rent.  On  Friday  night 
last  it  was  the  costly  appendage  of  a  silken  robe,  upon  which  a 
masculine  boot  heel  has  accidentally  trodden,  with  the  aforesaid 
result. 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  Monday,  and  with  the  exception  of 
Uncle  Grif,  Miss  Owenson  is  quite  alone  in  that  coziest  apart- 
ment of  the  Macgregor  house,  the  family  sitting-room.  Her 
aunt  and  cousin  are  out  making  calls,  in  which  social  martyr- 
dom she  has  declined  participating. 

"  I  must  have  it  mended,"  thinks  Miss  Owenson  ;  "but  who 
is  to  do  it  ?  Experts  in  lace  work  are  rare,  I  fancy,  in  New 
York.  I  must  ask  Katie." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  my  dear  Miss  Sydney  ?  "  inquires 
Uncle  Grif,  in  his  timid  way,  coming  forward. 

"  Do  I  look  so  woe-begone  over  my  torn  flounce,  then  ?  "  says 
Sydney,  laughing.  "  This  is  the  matter,"  she  holds  up  the 
large  rent,  "not  a  matter  of  life  or  death,  you  see." 

"Ah  !  torn,"  says  Uncle  Grif.  in  profound  sympathy.  "What 
— what  is  it?" 

"  It  was  a  flounce,  and  will  be  again  if  I  can  get  it  mended." 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  yourself,  Miss  Sydney  ?  "  asks  Uncle 
Grif,  and  his  dull  eyes  light  suddenly. 

"Not  I!"  replies  Miss  Owenson.  "I  never  did  anything 
half  so  useful  in  my  life.  This  lace  belonged  to  poor  mamma 
— she  wore  it  when  a  girl,  and  it  is  a  souvenir,  so  of  more  value 
thanMts  intrinsic  worth." 

The  sparkle  in  Uncle  Grif  s  dull  eyes  grows  brighter,  and 
more  eager. 

"  Miss  Sydney,"  he  says,  "/  know  a  person — a  lady  who  will 
mend  that  for  you.  She  makes  lace — and  embroidery,  and  all 
that.  She  was  educated  in  a  convent,  and  does  the  loveliest 


A  LONG  TALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALK.  291 

needlework  you  ever  saw.  If  you'll  come  with  me  I'll  take 
you  to  her,  and  you  can  ascertain  for  yourself." 

"  Uncle  Grif,  you  are  a  household  treasure  !  "  exclaims  Syd- 
ney, rolling  up  her  lace,  and  rising.  "  Wait  ten  minutes,  and 
I  will  be  with  you." 

She  makes  a  parcel  of  her  torn  Chantilly,  hastily  arrays  her- 
self for  the  street,  and  sallies  forth  under  the  protecting  wing 
of  Uncle  Grif.  That  amiable  old  gentleman's  face  beams  with 
delight. 

"We  will  take  a  Seventh  Avenue  car.  You  don't  mind 
taking  a  car,  do  you,  Miss  Sydney  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not,  Uncle  Grif.     Why  on  earth  should  I  ?  " 

"  Katie  does  ;  that  is  all.  One  has  to  ride  with  such  a 
motley  assembly  of  the  Great  Unwashed — that  is  what  she 
says." 

"  Katie  says  more  than  she  means  ;  you  must  not  take  her 
literally.  There  is  nothing  I  enjoy  more  than  riding  in  those 
city  street  cars,  and  watching  the  different  phases  of  the  human 
face  divine.  It  is  quite  a  new  experience  to  me.  Who  is  the 
— the  lady  who  does  the  lace  work  ?  " 

"A  most  respectable  person,  Miss  Sydney.  Oh,  a  most 
respectable  person,"  cries  Uncle  Griff,  eagerly. 

"  Of  course,"  Sydney  answers  ;  "  that  goes  without  saying, 
since  you  are  taking  me  to  her.  But  what  is  she,  maid  or  ma- 
tron, wife  or  widow  ?" 

"  A  widow  lady  and  her  daughter  ;  there  are  two.  Once  she 
was  well  off,  and  she  is  a  person  of  culture  and  refinement. 
They  are  poor  now,  and  she  ekes  out  her  income  by  doing  fine 
needlework  for  ladies,  and  for  fancy  stores." 

They  are  riding  up  town  now,  and  as  Miss  Owenson  does  not 
fancy  conversation  at  the  pitch  at  which  it  must  be  cairied  on 
in  a  street-car,  she  relapses  into  silence,  and  watches  with  never- 
flagging  interest  and  amusement  the  people  who  perpetually 
get  in  and  out. 

Presently  their  own  turn  comes,  and  they  walk  three  or  four 
blocks  westward,  and  stop  at  last  before  a  two-story  wooden 
house,  sadly  in  want  of  paint.  A  tiny  plot  of  grass  is  in  front ; 
there  are  flowers  in  all  the  windows,  Miss  Owenson  notices, 
and  augurs  well  therefrom.  Uncle  Grif  knocks  with  his  knuckles, 
and  this  primitive  summons  is  answered  immediately.  An 
elderly  woman  opens  the  door,  smiles  upon  Uncle  Grif,  and 
glance;  at  his  companion.  Then  there  is  a  simultaneous  excla- 
mation. 


292  A   LONG  TALK  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK. 

"  My  dear  young  lady  ! " 

lt  My  dear  old  lady  ! "  Sydney  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  but 
substituted  "  madam ; "  and  Uncle  Grif  gazes  agape  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"Why,  you're  not  acquainted  already,  are  you  ?"  he  asks. 

"  We  met ;  'twas  in  a  crowd,"  laughs  Sydney  ;  "  we  met  by 
chance  the  usual  way,  last  week,  Uncle  Grif,  in  a  car.  Really 
it  is  quite  a  coincidence." 

"  Come  in,"  says  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  ushers  them 
into  the  tiniest,  the  trimmest  little  parlor  Miss  Owenson  has 
ever  seen  out  of  a  doll's  house.  A  flower-stand  filled  with  pots 
is  in  each  window  ;  muslin  curtains,  delicately  embroidered, 
draped  them  ;  a  little  upright  piano,  its  keys  yellowed  by  time, 
covered  with  music,  stands  in  a  corner  ;  one  or  two  oil  chromos 
and  steel  engravings,  in  home-made  rustic  frames,  hung  on  the 
papered  walls  ;  books  in  profusion  litter  the  centre-table.  The 
chairs  are  cane,  the  carpet  old  and  faded,  but  the  little  room  is 
so  sunny,  so  sweet,  so  dainty,  that  it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to 
be  in  it. 

"  People  who  have  seen  better  days,  decidedly,"  Miss  Owen- 
son  infers,  taking  all  this  in  with  one  comprehensive  feminine 
glance.  "  What  a  very  nice  face  the  old  lady  has." 

"Will  you  not  introduce  this  young  lady,  Mr.  Glenn?"  says 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  as  she  places  chairs.  "  We  have  met 
before,  and  the  young  lady  did  me  a  favor,  but  I  have  not  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  her  name." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  1 — I  forgot  to  introduce  you,"  Uncle 
Grif  responds  in  his  flurried,  nervous  way.  "This  is  Miss 
Owenson,  Mrs.  Nolan — Miss  Sydney  Owenson.  And  this  is 
my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Nolan,  Miss  Sydney." 

"Nolan,"  thinks  Sydney,  a  little  startled. 

"  You — you  know  Lewis,  you  know  ?  "  continues  Uncle  Grif, 
apologetically  to  Sydney.  "  This  is  his  mother.  She — she  is 
acquainted  with  your  son,  Mrs.  Nolan,  and — and  her  lace  is  torn, 
and  I  made  her  bring  it  here  to  have  it  mended." 

Uncle  Grif  pulls  out  his  handkerchief  and  wipes  his  forehead, 
very  much  upset  at  finding  himself  master  of  the  ceremonies, 
even  on  this  small  scale.  Mrs.  Nolan  looks  at  her  fair  visitor 
with  a  pleased  smile. 

"  You  have  met  my  son,  Miss  Owenson  ?  " 

"  More  than  once,  madame.  But  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea, 
I  assure  you,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  blushing  suddenly,  "  that  in 
coming  here " 


A  LONG    TALK"  AND  A   LITTLE  WALK.  293 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  Lewis'  mother?"  says  Uncle  Grif, 
looking  surprised.  "  No.  by-the-by,  1  believe  I  didn't.  She 
tore  her — what  was  it,  Miss  Sydney  ?  Oh,  her  flounce,  and  I 
asked  her  to  bring  it  here,  and  let  you  mend  it.  You  can  mend 
it,  you  know,  Mrs.  Nolan  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  able  to  tell  better  when  I  see  it,"  Mrs.  Nolan  an- 
swers  ;  and  Sydney  unwraps  her  parcel  and  hands  it  to  her, 
feeling  oddly  nervous  herself. 

Lewis  Nolan's  mother — Lewis  Nolan's  home — she  looked  at 
both  with  new  and  strong  interest.  That  was  his  piano, 
those  his  books — how  refined  everything  was  in  its  poverty. 
What  was  the  sister  like,  the  girl  wondered.  Mrs.  Nolan  took 
the  torn  lace  to  the  window  and  examined  it  with  the  admiring 
and  appreciative  eye  of  a  connoisseur  in  laces. 

"What  exquisite  Chantilly — what  a  beautiful  pattern — what 
a  pity  it  should  be  torn.  I  never  saw  a  lovelier  piece  of  lace — 
it  must  be  very  valuable." 

"  It  is,"  Sydney  answered  ;  "but  its  chief  value,  in  my  eyes, 
is  that  it  belonged  to  my  dear  mother.  Can  you  mend  it,  Mrs. 
Nolan  ? "  Uncle  Grif  assures  me  you  work  miracles  with 
your  needle." 

"  My  eyes  are  very  bad  for  fine  work,  particularly  black  ;  but 
Lucy  can,  I  am  positive.  Lucy  is  my  daughter,  Miss  Owen- 
son,  and  very  proficient  in  lace  work.  She  is  an  invalid,  and 
cannot  come  down-stairs,  but  I  will  bring  it  up,  and  show  it  to 
her,  if  you  like." 

"Cannot  Miss  Sydney  go  up  too  ?"  cries  Uncle  Grif,  in  his 
eager  way.  "  I — I  should  be  glad  to  have  her  know  Lucy." 

"  And  Lucy  will  be  very  glad  to  know  her,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan 
gently,  "  if  you  will  come  up,  my  dear  Miss  Owenson " 

Sydney  rises  at  once  ;  that  strong  feeling  of  profound  inter- 
est still  upon  her,  and  follows  Mrs.  Nolan  up  a  little  flight  of 
steep  stairs  to  an  upper  landing  off  which  three  small  rooms 
open.  The  door  of  each  stands  open  ;  they  are  all  bed  cham- 
bers, all  spotless  and  tasteful,  one  the  mother's,  one  the  son's, 
the  young  lady  decides,  and  this  front  one  the  invalid  daugh- 
ter's. Sydney  pauses  a  moment  on  the  threshold  and  takes  in 
the  picture.  The  green  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  small  white 
bed  in  the  corner,  the  two  pictures  that  hang  near  it — "  Ecce 
Homo,"  and  "Mater  Dolorosa," — a  trailing  Irish  ivy  filling  one 
window,  roses  and  geraniums  the  other.  The  same  muslin 
draperies  as  downs-tairs,  a  large  photograph  of  Lewis  Nolan's 
strong  face  and  thoughtful  forehead  over  the  mantel ;  a  table 


294  A   LONG    TALK  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK. 

with  a  family  Bible  and  one  or  two  other  books  of  a  grave  na- 
ture, judging  by  their  binding,  and — a  little  thrill  goes  through 
Sydney  as  she  sees  it — a  basket  of  pure  white  flowers  that  a 
few  days  ago  graced  the  counter  of  Greenstalks.  This,  then, 
is  the  lady-love  for  whom  the  young  lawyer  spends  his  money. 
Mr.  Nolan  rises  in  one  second  to  a  place  in  Miss  Owenson's 
regard,  which  it  might  else  have  taken  him  months  to  attain. 

She  looks  from  the  room  to  its  occupant  with  ever-growing 
interest.  In  a  great  invalid  chair  she  sits,  no  girl — a  woman  of 
thirty  evidently,  so  slight,  so  fragile,  so  bloodless,  that  the  thin 
face  and  hands  seem  almost  transparent.  But  it  is  the  sweet- 
est face,  Sydney  thinks,  her  eyes  have  ever  looked  on,  with  an 
expression  so  gentle,  so  patient,  so  womanly,  that  her  heart  is 
taken  captive  at  a  glance.  There  is  a  subtle  likeness  to  the 
brother  in  the  sister,  the  same  dark,  deep  eyes,  the  same 
thoughtful  brow,  the  same  cast  of  feature.  Only  the  some- 
what stern  mouth  of  the  young  man  is  soft  and  tender  in  the 
woman,  and  the  likeness  makes  the  contrast  between  them 
more  marked  and  pathetic — he,  the  very  type  and  embodiment 
of  perfect  health,  strong  and  manly  vigor — she,  with  death,  it 
seems  to  Sydney,  already  imprinted  on  her  face. 

"Lucy,"  Mrs.  Nolan  says,  "this  is  Miss  Owenson.  She  has 
brought  some  lace  to  be  repaired,  and  Mr.  Glenn,  with  his  cus- 
tomary kindness,  recommended  us." 

"Miss  Owenson?"  Lucy  Nolan's  face  lights  up.  "The 
Miss  Owenson  who  resides  with  Mrs.  Macgregor  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Macgregor  is  my  relative — yes." 

How  much  the  sister  resembles  her  brother,  Sydney  thinks, 
when  she  smiles,  and  where — where  has  she  seen  Lucy  Nolan 
before  ?  In  a  moment  it  flashes  upon  her.  Idealized,  and  as 
this  sick  woman  may  have  looked  ten  years  ago,  her  face  is  the 
pictured  face  of  "  The  little  Sister." 

"  Evidently  Monsieur  von  Ette  derives  his  inspiration '  from 
this  family,"  thinks  Miss  Owenson,  amused.  "  That  is  a  very 
good  likeness  of  Mr.  Lewis,  over  the  mantel.  That  strong, 
dark  face,  and  those  piercing  eyes  of  his  photograph  well." 

"You  can  do  this,  can't  you,  Lucy?"  says  her  mother,  ex- 
hibiting the  rent ;  and  Lucy  examines  it  in  her  turn  through  a 
pair  of  glasses  with  a  practical  eye. 

"  I  have  to  wear  glasses  at  my  work,"  she  informs  Sydney. 
"  What  lovely  lace  !  Yes,  I  can  do  this  easily,  and  ?o  that  the 
mending  will  never  be  known  from  the  original  pattern ;  but 
not  this  week.  Are  you  in  a  hurry,  Miss  Owenson  ?  " 


A  LONG    FALK  AND  A   LITTLE    WALK.  295 

"  Not  at  all — next  week,  next  month,  will  do  if  you  like." 

"Ah  !  but  we  don't  like,"  responds  Lucy  Nolan;  "we  do 
not  want  to  keep  a  flounce  worth  a  thousand  dollars  in  our 
possession  any  longer  than  we  can  help.  I  shall  do  it  early 
next  week." 

"  I  must  go  and  see  after  Uncle  Grif,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
leaving  the  room.  "  He  is  languishing  in  solitude  down-stairs." 

"  What  very  lovely  flowers,"  remarks  Miss  Owenson.  "  Your 
windows  are  perfect  floral  bowers,  Miss  Nolan." 

"  Yes,  plants  flourish  with  me.  Is  not  that  calla  beautiful  ? 
My  brother  takes  the  trouble  of  banishing  them  every  night. 
He  has  hygienic  notions  about  their  absorbing  all  the  oxygen 
that  my  poor  lungs  need." 

"  Your  brother  is  right.  Yes,  your  calla  lily  is  a  gem.  And 
what  a  superb  ivy.  This,"  Sydney  points  to  the  basket,  "  is  an 
old  acquaintance." 

"  Yes,  Lewis  sent  me  that  on  my  birthday.  I  was  one-and- 
thirty  last  Thursday ;  and  he  told  me  he  met  you  and  Miss 
Macgregor  at  the  florist's.  I  am  glad  I  have  met  you,  Miss 
Owenson,"  Lucy  says,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  have  heard  of  you  until  my  curiosity  has  been  strongly 
aroused." 

"  Heard  of  me  ?  "  Sydney  repeats,  her  blue  eyes  opening. 

"  I  never  go  out  ;  it  is  months  since  I  left  this  room,  and 
Lewis  tries  to  amuse  me  by  telling  me  every  evening  what  goes 
on  in  the  outer  world,  the  people  he  meets,  and  the  sights  he 
sees.  And  he  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  you." 

"  Indeed,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  coloring. 

"  I  wish  I  might  tell  you  what  he  has  said.  I  wonder  if  you 
would  be  offended,"  laughs  Lucy. 

"  Well,  so  that  it  be  not  very  uncomplimentary  I  think  I 
might  stand  it.  It  is  well  sometimes  to  see  ourselves  as  others 
see  us." 

"  Then  !  you're  not  to  be  offended,  mind  !  He  told  von  Ett6 
he  had  seen  many  beautiful  faces  in  his  time,  but  never  one  of 
such  ideal  purity  and  nobility,  half  womanly,  half  angelic." 

"  Oh  !  "  Sydney  cries,  "  hush  !  "  The  rose-pink  blush  is  scarlet 
now.  "  If  Mr.  Nolan  had  the  bad  taste  to  say  that,  you  should 
not  have  repeated  it." 

"  1  apologized  beforehand,  remember.  He  would  be  as  in- 
dignant as  yourself  if  he  knew  I  had  told.  Von  Ette  says  you 
have  bought  '  Sintram.'  What  do  you  think  of  the  likeness  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  very  good  one,  if  one  could  imagine  your  brothel 


2f)6  A  LONG    TALK  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK. 

in  so  tragic  a  frame  of  mind.  So  you  never  go  out  :  how  sad 
that  must  be.  You  look  very  ill — too  ill  to  work.  Have  you 
been  an  invalid  long  ?  " 

"  For  ten  years,"  said  Lucy  Nolan. 

"  Oh  !  " 

"  I  have  consumption,  as  you  may  see,"  pursued  Miss  Nolan, 
with  perfect  cheerfulness,  "and  complaint  of  the  spine,  that 
chains  me  to  this  chair.  But  I  am  quite  able  to  work.  Oh,  I 
assure  you,  yes;  and  my  work  and  my  books  are  the  two  chief 
pleasures  of  my  life.  You  don't  know  how  thankful  I  am  to 
be  able  to  work  and  help  mother  and  Lewis,  who  work  so  hard. 
My  needle  passes  the  days,  and  then  there  are  the  evenings. 
My  sun  rises,  Miss  Owenson,  when  other  people's  set,  for  the 
evening  brings  Lewis  and  Carl  von  Ette,  and  we  have  music  and 
the  magazines,  and  the  news  of  the  world  outside.  And  I  am 
happy,  I  assure  you.  Oh,  just  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long." 

There  are  tears  in  Sydney's  eyes  as  she  listens  to  the  bright 
voice,  and  looks  in  the  wan  face,  all  drawn  and  pallid  with 
pain. 

"  But  you  must  suffer,  surely — your  face  shows  that." 

"  Yes,"  Lucy  says,  and  says  it  still  cheerfully,  "a  little  some- 
times. My  back  " — a  spasm  twitches  the  pale  lips — "  I  suffer 
at  times  with  my  back.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I  have  a  nasty, 
hacking  cough  that  worries  mother  and  Lewis,  and  keeps  them 
awake  nights." 

"  It  keeps  you  awake  too,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  doesn't  matter  so  much  about  me.  They  have 
to  work  so  hard  all  day,  that  it  is  too  bad  their  rest  should  be 
broken  by  my  wretched  cough." 

Lucy  Nolan  says  this  with  such  genuine  sympathy  for  them, 
such  genuine  indignation  at  herself,  that  Sydney  smiles,  al- 
though tears  still  stand  in  her  eyes. 

"  Are  you  ever  confined  to  bed,  Miss  Nolan  ?  " 

"  Miss  Nolan  ! — how  comical  that  sounds,"  says  the  invalid, 
laughing.  "  Call  me  Lucy,  please — I  don't  know  myself  by 
any  other  name.  Yes,  I  am  sometimes,  when  my  back  is  very 
bad,  and  then  poor  mother  is  nearly  worn  to  death  waiting  on 
me,  and  Lewis  will  have  a  doctor  and  expensive  medicines,  say 
what  I  will.  I  am  a  dreadful  drag  on  them  both — all  Lewis 
earns  he  is  obliged  to  spend  in  me.  Ah  !  you  don't  know  how 
good  he  is,  Miss  Owenson.  Night  after  night  he  has  had  tc 
witch  with  me,  and  toil  all  day  long  at  he  office  after.  He 
would  insist  upon  mother's  going  to  bed,  and  letting  him  take 


A  LONG    TALK  AND  A  LITTLE    WALK.  297 

her  place.  The  trouble  of  my  life  is  the  trouble  I  give 
them." 

"  '  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thou  mayest  be  long- 
lived  upon  the  land,'  "  thinks  Sydney.  "  A  good  son  and  a 
good  brother.  Mr.  Lewis  is  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  and 
I  like  him." 

So  they  sit  and  talk,  and  the  minutes  fly.  Sydney  is  so  vividly 
interested  that  the  afternoon  wanes  and  she  does  not  see  it. 
The  charm  of  manner  that  makes  the  brother  so  agreeable  a 
companion  is  possessed  also  by  the  invalid  sister.  Her  needle 
flies  as  she  talks,  her  eyes  laugh  behind  her  glasses,  she  is  free 
from  pain  to-day  and  quite  happy.  It  is  only  when  Lucy  lays 
down  her  work  that  Sydney  sees  the  shadows  of  coming  night 
filling  the  room. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaims,  starting  up  in  consternation,  "  how  I 
have  lingered.  It  is  nearly  dark.  What  will  Uncle  Grif  say  ?  " 

"  Uncle  Grif  went  away  half  an  hour  ago,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
entering.  "  I  left  him  to  do  something  in  the  kitchen,  and 
when  I  looked  in  again  he  was  gone." 

"  Highly  characteristic  of  Uncle  Grif,"  says  Lucy,  laughing. 
Don't  feel  mortified,  Miss  Owenson,  but  he  forgot  all  about  you 
five  minutes  after  you  were  out  of  his  sight." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  cried  Sydney,  in  despair. 

"  Here  is  Lewis — you  must  let  him  take  you  home,"  says  Mrs. 
Nolan.  "  It  is  altogether  too  late  for  you  to  venture  alone." 

The  house  door  opened  and  closed,  a  man's  step  came  two 
or  three  at  a  time  up  the  stairs,  and  Lewis  Nolan,  "  booted  and 
spurred  " — that  is,  in  great  coat  and  hat — stood  in  the  doorway 
amazedly  contemplating  the  group. 

"  Miss  Owenson  !  " 

The  color  flashed  vividly  into  Sydney's  cheeks,  but  she  held 
out  her  hand  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  You  see  before  you  a  damsel  in  distress,  Mr.  Nolan.  Un- 
cle Grif — perfidious,  like  all  of  his  kind— inveigled  me  here  and 
then  basely  deserted  me." 

In  a  few  words  Mrs.  Nolan  explained  the  situation,  while 
Sydney  hastily  drew  on  her  gloves. 

"  You  must  permit  me  to  take  Uncle  Grif 's  place,  of  course," 
said  Lewis  Nolan.  "  His  loss  is  my  gain.  Uncle  Grif  is  to  be 
trustee!  no  further  than  you  can  see  him.  If  he  were  a  genins 
he  could  not  be  more  absent  minded." 

"  Stay  for  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  hospitably.  "  The  evening 
'«  cold,  and  a  cup  will  warm  you." 


298  A  LONG    TALK  AND  A    LITTLE    WALK. 

"  Tea  is  my  mother's  panacea  for  all  the  ills  of  life,"  said  Mr. 
Nolan. 

But  Sydney  would  not  listen  to  this — she  was  nervously  anxious 
to  reach  home  before  Aunt  Helen  and  Katherine,  and  avoid 
questioning.  So  taking  the  arm  of  Mr.  Nolan,  Miss  Owenson 
went  forth  into  the  gaslit  highways  of  New  York. 

"Come  again  soon — do,"  pleaded  Lucy,  at  parting;  "you 
don't  know  what  a  pleasure  it  will  be  to  me." 

And  Sydney  had  kissed  the  patient,  gentle  face,  and  promised. 

"  Your  sister  is  charming,  Mr.  Nolan,"  she  said ;  she  "  be- 
witched the  hours,  I  believe.  How  patient  she  is,  how  sweet, 
how  good." 

"  Poor  Lucy  ! — yes.  I  hope,  among  your  multiplicity  of 
engagements  you  will  sometimes  steal  an  hour  for  her.  Her 
pleasures  are  so  few,  her  sufferings  so  great." 

"  She  does  suffer  then  ?     She  would  not  say  so  to  me." 

"  Miss  Owenson,  her  life  for  the  past  ten  years  has  been  one 
long  martyrdom,  and  she  has  borne  it  all  with  patience  angelic. 
She  does  not  seem  to  think  of  her  own  suffering,  only  of  the 
pain  and  trouble  she  gives  us.  Her  happiness  is  in  days  like 
this,  when  she  can  sit  up  and  work,  or  talk  to  a  friend.  So  it 
will  be  a  work  of  charity  if  sometimes " 

"  I  shall  come  often — very  often,"  says  Miss  Owenson.  ''The 
visits  will  be  a  greater  pleasure  to  me  than  they  can  possibly  be 
to  her.  I  owe  Uncle  Grif  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  having  brought 
me." 

"In  spite  of  his  heartless  desertion?"  asks  Lewis  Nolan. 
"  Miss  Owenson.  shall  we  ride  or  walk  ?  The  cars  are  sure  to 
be  crowded  at  this  hour,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  you  will  be  able  to 
get  a  seat.  Besides,  their  progress  is  so  slow,  with  continual 
stoppage " 

"  I  will  walk  then,"  Miss  Owenson  answers.  "  I  have  no  fancy 
for  bad  atmosphere  and  hanging  suspended  in  mid-air.  Besides, 
I  am  an  excellent  walker;  I  have  had  no  end  of  practice  among 
the  Swiss  mountains  and  over  the  Cornish  moors." 

"You  have  been  in  Cornwall,  then?" 

"  For  nine  months — and  thought  a  six-mile  walk  between 
breakfast  and  luncheon  a  mere  bagatelle." 

She  pauses  suddenly  with  a  keen  sense  of  pain.  There  is 
Miss  Leonard's  letter  to  be  answered,  and  it  flashes  upon  her 
she  can  never  say  "  come  "  to  Sir  Henry  Leonard.  She  has 
never  been  sure  before,  but  she  is  to-night. 

The  walk  is  nearly  an  hour  long,  and  the  frosty  stars  are  all 


"ONE    YELLOW  NEW  YEAR  NIGHT."  299 

a-twinkle  in  the  November  sky  when  they  reach  the  palatial 
brown-stone  front,  and  lights  flash  from  dining-room  and  hall. 

"  You  will  come  in  ?  "  Miss  Owenson  says. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,  no.  I  shall  be  busy  writing  until 
midnight.  Good-night,  Miss  Owenson." 

He  rings  the  bell,  and  waits  to  see  her  admitted ;  then,  with 
another  good-night,  Lewis  strides  away. 

"What  a  long  walk  I  have  given  him,  and  no  doubt  he  is 
tired  enough  already,"  Sydney  thinks. 

"  Susan,  have  Mrs.  Macgregor  and  Miss  Katherine  re- 
turned ?  " 

"  No,  Miss  Sydney,  not  yet." 

"  Dieu  merci  !  "  thinks  Sydney,  running  up  to  her  own  room. 
Strangely  enough,  when  they  do  come,  and  all  meet  at  dinner, 
she  says  not  a  word  of  where  she  has  spent  the  afternoon. 

At  ten  o'clock  she  goes  up  to  her  chamber,  but  before  she 
goes  to  bed  she  writes  her  letter.  It  is  rather  a  difficult  letter 
to  write ;  but  since  it  must  be  written,  why,  the  sooner  the 
better.  Near  the  Close  she  says  this  : 

"  I  hardly  know  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  Sir  Harry  has 
not  sailed  with  the  expedition.  I  am  glad  for  your  sake, 
certainly.  But,  dear  friend,  I  can  never  say  to  him  the  word  he 
wants — 1  can  never  say  '  come.'  If  I  ever  doubted,  I  doubt 
no  longer.  I  do  not  love  him,  worthy  of  all  love  as  he  is  ;  and 
I  shall  love  my  husband,  or  go  to  my  grave  unwedded.  Tell 
him  this  as  gently  as  you  can,  and  forgive  me  all  the  pain  I 
cause  you  both." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"ONE   YELLOW   NEW   YEAR    NIGHT." 

|FTER  that  November  afternoon  Miss  Owenson  com- 
plied many  times  with  Mr.  Nolan's  request  that  she 
would  "  sometimes  steal  an  hour  from  her  multipli- 
city of  engagements,  and  come  to  see  Lucy."  Twice, 
at  least,  every  week,  brought  her  to  the  little  cottage  in  the 
shabby,  out-of-the-way  street ;  and  with  every  visit  her  strong 


300  "  ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT." 

first  liking  for  n  other  and  daughter  grew  stronger.  Bouquets, 
luxuriant  and  rare  house-plants,  baskets  of  luscious  white 
grapes,  new  books,  and  beautiful  engravings,  new  music,  all  the 
refined  and  delicate  things  the  invalid  best  loved,  began  to  find 
their  way  to  the  cottage.  It  was  easy  for  Sydney  to  imagine 
her  tastes,  for  they  were  her  own.  It  was  understood,  also, 
that  these  things  were  not  to  be  mentioned  at  the  donor's  next 
visit ;  the  thanks  and  gratitude  were  to  be  understood,  not 
expressed.  Best  of  all,  work  never  flagged  now ;  all  the  time 
the  widow  and  her  daughter  could  spare  from  their  regular 
customers,  Miss  Owenson  filled  up. 

During  these  weekly  visits  the  son  of  the  house  was  but 
rarely  met.  A  shyness  altogether  new  in  Miss  Owenson's 
experience  of  herself,  made  her  shrink  from  meeting  him  when 
she  came  to  see  his  sister,  although  always  very  frankly  and 
cordially  glad  to  meet  him  elsewhere.  They  did  meet  tolerably 
often  in  this  way — most  often  of  all  at  his  friend  Mrs.  Graham's, 
rarely  at  the  Macgregors',  and  occasionally  at  concerts  or  opera. 
Mrs.  Graham,  like  most  happy  little  wives  and  women,  was  a 
match-maker  by  instinct,  and  conceived  the  happy  idea  from 
the  very  first  night,  of  marrying  Miss  Owenson  to  her  favorite 
Lewis. 

"  It  arranges  itself  as  naturally  as  life,  John,"  says  Mrs. 
Graham  to  Mr.  Graham,  in  connubial  confidence.  "Both  are 
young — he  clever,  she  handsome — he  struggling  for  fame  and  a 
start  in  life,  she  with  more  money  than  she  knows  what  to  do 
with.  She  is  the  sweetest  girl  I  have  met  for  many  a  day — sim- 
ple, unaffected,  intelligent  and  lovely.  She  is  worthy  even  ol 
him.  All  is  said  in  that." 

"  I  feel,"  observes  Mr.  Graham,  calmly,  "  that  if  this  sort  of 
thing  goes  on  much  longer  1  shall  become  a  victim  of  the 
green  eyed  monster — ferociously  jealous  of  Lewis  Nolan." 

"  Nonsense,  sir !  You  know  you  are  as  fond  of  him  as  I 
am,  and  just  as  anxious  to  see  him  marry  well." 

"  Ah !  but  heiresses  don't  throw  themselves  away,  as  a 
general  thing,  on  impecunious  young  attorneys.  Money 
marries  money.  '  He  that  hath  a  goose  shall  get  a  goose." 
This  Miss  Owenson  was  of  English  descent — lays  claim  on  the 
father's  side,  so  I  understood,  to  birth  and  blood,  and  all  that. 
And  everybody  knows  that  Lewis — my  junior  partner  at 
present — began  his  career  as  my  office  boy.  That  sort  of 
thing  tells  with  women." 

"  It  does  not  with  Miss  Owenson/'  cries  Mrs.  Graham,  with 


"ONE    YELLOW  NE W  YEAR  NIGHT."  301 

spirit.     *  Don't  class  her  with  the  ordinary  run  of  young  per- 
sons— that  fast  Katie  Macgregor,  for  instance." 

"  Fast,  my  dear  ?  "  remonstrates  Mr.  G. 

"  Certainly ;  she  is  audacious  enough  for  anything.  Did  you 
hear  her  discuss  that  odious  divorce  case  lastnight  with  Mr. 
Van  Cuyler  ?  — Van  Cuyler,  of  all  men,  with  his  high  and  mighty 
notions  of  womanly  delicacy  and  dignity.  And  the  way  she 
angles  for  Mr.  Vanderdonck — the  way  she  has  been  angling  for 
the  past  six  years  !  It  is  a  thousand  pities  so  pure,  so  true,  so 
thoroughly  sweet  and  womanly  a  girl  as  this  Sydney  Owenson 
should  be  among  them." 

"  She  is  one  of  the  family,  and  they  are  going  to  marry  hei 
to  Dick,"  says  Mr.  Graham. 

"Ah!  Dick  ?  I  hope  your  head  won't  ache  until  they  do," 
darkly  retorts  Mrs.  Graham.  "  She  will  no  more  marry  Dick 
Macgregor  than — than  I  would  if  I  were  single." 

"  Thank  you,  my  love,"  says  Mr.  Graham,  and  falls  asleep. 

Mrs.  Graham,  acting  on  this  philanthropic  idea,  took  every 
opportunity  of  throwing  these  two  young  people  together.  She 
conceived  a  great  and  sudden  passion  for  the  orphan  heiress, 
carried  her  about  with  her  wherever  she  could  induce  her  to 
come,  had  her  at  her  house  a  great  deal,  and  gave  Mr.  Nolan 
ample  opportunity,  if  he  so  desired,  to  win  his  way  to  the  heiress' 
favor.  But  favors  are  vainly  thrust  on  some  people.  Mr. 
Nolan  showed  himself  insensible,  in  a  most  exasperating  degree, 
to  all  this  loveliness  and  wealth.  He  and  Miss  Owenson  got  on 
remarkably  well  in  a  general  way,  danced  together,  talked  to- 
gether, even  sang  together,  on  very  private  evenings,  but  of 
love-making,  the  alphabet  was  not  yet  commenced, 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Nolan's  modesty  stands  in  his  way,  my  dear," 
is  what  Mr.  Graham  said,  soothingly  to  Mrs.  Graham,  when  that 
best  of  women  bitterly  complained  of  her  favorite's  defection. 
"  Bashful  ness  is  the  bane  of  most  young  barristers'  lives." 

"  Bashfulness ! "  cries  Mrs.  Graham,  with  ineffable  scorn. 
"  The  remark,  sir,  is  too  contemptible  to  be  answered.  The 
worst  of  it  is  thai  I  think " 

But  here  Mrs.  Graham  paused,  too  honorable  to  betray  even 
to  her  husband  the  secret  of  a  sister  woman's  heart. 

*•  You  think  young  Nolan  might  go  in  and  win,  my  dear,  if 
he  liked  ?  "  insinuates  Mr.  Graham,  which  coarse  remark  his 
spouse  disdains  to  answer. 

Many  new  friends  were  being  made  in  the  December  weeks, 
many  invitations  pouring  in  for  the  fair  heiress,  many  engage- 


302  "ONE    YELLOW  NEW  YEAR  NIGHT." 

ments  for  every  day.  A  net  of  entanglement  seemed  to  be 
closing  around  Sydney,  in  spite  of  her  rebellious  protests  and 
chafings.  Invitations  could  not  be  rejected  without  rudeness, 
and  although  for  general  society  Sydney  did  not  much  care,  she 
found  herself  being  drawn  into  the  maelstrom,  whether  she 
would  or  no.  It  was  most  difficult,  at  times,  to  keep  up  hei 
visits  to  Lucy  Nolan,  and  in  these  latter  weeks  Lucy  was  ailing 
and  in  pain. 

The  wan,  patient  face  saddened  when  Sydney  went,  and 
lightened  into  temporary  forgetfulness  of  suffering  when  she 
came.  Some  of  the  December  sunshine  seemed  to  enter  in  her 
face,  the  little  sad  house  grew  glad  with  her  presence.  "  Syd- 
ney's days  "  were  the  sunniest  days  in  the  week  to  Lucy  ;  and 
Sydney,  realizing  it,  resolved  that  no  engagement  should  here 
after  interfere  with  those  visits.  The  place  that  Cyrilla  Hen. 
drick  had  once  held  in  her  heart,  vacant  ever  since,  was  rapidly 
being  filled  by  this  wan,  gentle  Lucy. 

"  The  great  trial  of  "  The  State  vs.  Harland  "  was  to  com- 
mence about  the  close  of  December,  and  Lewis  Nolan  became 
so  busy  and  absorbed  that  he  no  longer  was  visible  even  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Graham.  He  came  home  very  late,  to 
sleep,  left  early,  and  was  seen  no  more  until  the  following 
night.  Mrs.  Graham  poured  her  complaints  into  Miss  Owen- 
son's  ear. 

"  He  is  working  himself  to  death.  I  saw  him  last  evening. 
I  went  down  to  the  office  for  Mr.  G.,  and  Lewis  lifted  such  a 
worn  face  from  a  pile  of  hideous  law  papers — those  great  eyes 
of  his,  hollow,  and  with  bistre  circles  beneath.  I  miss  him  so 
much  at  my  receptions,  that  tall  black  head  of  his  towering 
over  the  heads  of  his  fellow  men. 

"  '  He  seemed  the  goodliest  man 

That  ever  among  ladies  sat  in  hall, 

And  noblest — when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes, 

And  loved  him  with  a  love  that  was  her  doom,' " 

said  Mrs.  Graham,  gushing  out  in  the  most  unexpected  manner 
into  blank  verse.  Sydney  laughs — rather  unsympathetically. 

"  Dear  me  !  how  very  tragic.  '  With  a  love  that  was  her 
doom!'  You  do  not  mean  yourself,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Graham? 
For  the  sake  of  morality,  and  my  friendly  regard  for  Mr. 
Graham — " 

"Ah  !  you  are  like  the  rest,"  says  Mrs.  Graham,  shaking  hei 
head  ;  "  the  guis  of  the  present  day  have  no  heart.  When  i  was 


"ONE    YELLOW  NEW  YEAR  NIGHT."  303 

young  we  would  all  have  lost  our  heads  for  such  a  man  as  Lewis 
Nolan." 

"  What  very  ill-disciplined  heads  must  have  been  in  vogue. 
And  how  odd  it  seems  to  be  talking  sentiment  at  the  fashiona- 
ble hour,  and  on  the  sunny  side  of  Broadway,"  answers  the 
heiress. 

Mrs.  Graham  might  have  her  own  ideas,  but  Miss  Owenson 
baffled  even  her.  Certainly  the  bright  face  of  this  stately  young 
heiress  betokened  anything  but  love-sickness,  and  that  frank, 
rather  satirical  laugh  must  come  from  a  heart-whole  maiden.  The 
gentleman  was  immersed  in  a  horrid  murder  case,  the  lady  in 
running  the  round  of  a  New  York  season — yes,  it  seemed  a 
a  hopeless  affair. 

Sydney's  acquaintance  had  come  long  ago  to  the  ears  of  her 
family.  And  Katie  Macgregor  had  looked  up  from  a  fashion- 
book  and  the  latest  style  of  coiffures,  and  given  her  blonde 
cousin  a  long,  peculiar  glance. 

"  So  that  is  where  you  go  ? "  she  said,  slowly.  "  Do  you 
know  it  has  rather  puzzled  me  lately  where  so  many  of  your 
afternoons  were  spent  ?  " 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Miss  Owenson,  going  on  with  her  knitting 
in  unruffled  calm.  "  How  very  unnecessary  for  you  to  puzzle 
yourself.  Had  you  inquired  I  would  have  been  most  happy  to 
have  told  you." 

There  was  silence.  Miss  Macgregor  looked  back  at  the 
heads  of  hair  with  compressed  lips. 

"  You  went  first  with  Uncle  Grif,  to  have  your  torn  flounce 
repaired  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"I  knew  they  were  seamstresses  of  some  sort — dressmakers 
or  shirtmakers,  I  fancied.  What  kind  of  people  are  they  ?  Vul- 
gar, or  like  Lewis  ?  " 

"  Vulgar  is  the  last  word  I  should  think  of  applying  to  Mrs. 
or  Miss  Nolan.  If  I  ever  saw  ladies,  they  are  ladies." 

"  Ah  !  persons  of  education  ?  " 

"  That  is  understood." 

"  But  it  must  be  a  very  unpleasant  neighborhood  for  you  to 
visit — some  low  street,  is  it  not,  near  the  North  River  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  street  of  poor  people,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 
Does  poverty  inevitably  include  lowness  ?  I  jo  not  find  it  at  all 
unpleasant." 

"  And  then,  of  course,  Lewis  is  always  there  to  see  you  safety 
home/'  carelessly  suggests  Miss  Vlacgregor. 


304  "ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT." 

Miss  Ovvenson  lifts  her  eyes  from  her  work — a  gray  and 
crimson  breakfast  shawl  fjr  Aunt  Helen — and  looks  across  al 
her  cousin. 

"Mr.  Lewis  came  home  with  me  on  the  evening  of  my  fust 
visit,  as  Uncle  Grif  had  forsaken  me.  Since  that  day  I  have 
not  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  once  at  his  mother's  house." 

Was  there  a  ring  of  defiance  in  Sydney's  tone  ?  Instantly 
Katie  became  cheerfully  apologetic. 

"  Uncle  Grif  always  said  they  were  the  nicest  possible  people, 
the  Nolan  family.  I  never  met  any  of  them  but  Lewis.  He 
was  a  protege  of  uncle's,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  it  was  uncle 
who  first  got  him  into  Mr.  Graham's  office  to  open  and  close, 
sweep,  go  errands — not  a  very  dignified  beginning — and  finally 
sent  him  to  the  same  school  with  Dick.  Dick  used  to  bring 
him  here  at  times,  and  we  all  romped  in  a  friendly  way  together  ; 
but  as  we  grew  up,  of  course,  our  paths  swerved.  I  have 
no  doubt,  however,  that  Lewis  Nolan's  will  one  day  be  a  well 
known  name  throughout  the  land." 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five — seven — twelve  loops  of  gray," 
is  Miss  Ovvenson' s  answer  to  this,  as  she  bends  over  the  break- 
fast shawl. 

"  The  trial  begins  to-morrow,"  pursues  Katie.  "  How  I 
should  like  to  go." 

"  Should  you  ?"  growls  Dick,  rising  suddenly  from  his  seat  in 
a  distant  window  and  throwing  down  his  paper.  "  I  dare  say  : 
women  are  always  fond  of  going  where  they're  not  wanted  ; 
divorce  trials,  murder  trials,  everything  new  and  nasty.  They  go 
to  hangings,  sometimes,  and  bring  their  babies.  I  don't  sup- 
pose it  would  do  you  any  harm  ;  but,  for  all  that,  you  won't  go." 

"  Don't  attempt  sarcasm,  Dick,  at  least  until  you  gro\v  a 
little  older.  I  want  very  much  to  see  Mrs.  Harland,  and  hear 
Mr.  Nolan's  speech.  Mrs.  Graham  is  going,  Mrs.  Greerson,  and 
lots  more.  Why  cannot  you  get  Syd  and  me  admission,  like  a 
man  and  a  brother  ?  " 

"  Would  you  go  ?  "  asks  Dick,  looking  at  Miss  Owenson. 

"  No,"  says  Sydney,  quietly. 

"  Ah  !  "  Captain  Macgregor's  manly  brow  clears  ;  "  I  thought 
not.  You  may  go  if  you  choose,  Katie  ;  you're  big  enough 
and  old  enough  to  look  out  for  yourself ;  but  I  wouldn't  if  I 
w?re  you.  Fellows  talk  about  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it  spoils 
your  chances." 

"  Mr  Vanderdonck  wouldn't  care,"  responds  Katherine,  with 
unruffled  good  temper. 


"ONE    YELLOW  NEW   YEAR  NIGHT."  305 

"  No,  but  Van  Cuyler  might.  You've  been  making  eyes  at 
Van  Cuyler  lately,  haven't  you  ?  Not  that  it's  of  any  use,  mind 
you,"  says  Dick,  darkly.  "  He  has  registered  a  vow,  has  Van 
Cuyler,  like  those  fellows  with  the  crosses  on  their  legs — cross- 
legged,  eh  ? — Crusaders,  never  to  marry.  He'll  take  all  the 
love-making  you  can  do — he's  used  to  it,  bless  you — and  never 
think  once  you're  out  ofhis  sight." 

"  What  a  '  blessing  in  disguise'  is  a  brother,"  observes  Katie 
as  the  door  closes  after  Captain  Dick's  stalwart  form.  "He  is 
right  to  a  certain  extent,  after  all  ;  I  should  like  to  go." 

She  did  not,  however ;  but  the  papers  and  Dick  brought 
daily  reports  of  the  trial.  The  opening  speech  for  the  prosecu- 
tion was  crushing — the  learned  counsel  inveighed  against  the 
man  or  woman  "  who  anticipates  the  great  prerogative  of  the 
Almighty,  and  sends  a  soul  from  time  to  eternity."  Great  inter- 
est was  felt  on  all  sides,  for  Mrs.  Harland  had  youth  and  good 
looks,  and  many  friends.  The  trial  lasted  a  week.  Mr.  Nolan 
came  to  the  fore  nobly,  and  displayed  a  forensic  skill  and  acu- 
men that  would  have  done  honor  to  twenty  years'  experience  at 
the  bar.  That  was  what  the  papers  said,  and  Dick  and  Mrs. 
Graham  endorsed.  He  arose  and  spoke  for  his  client  in  away, 
the  latter  lady  declared,  that  brought  tears  to  every  eye.  He 
painted  a  long  catalogue  of  wrongs  she  had  endured,  the  name- 
less insults  she  had  undergone,  the  outrages  of  every  kind  that  a 
brutal  husband  can  inflict.  His  speech,  Mrs.  Graham  declared, 
was  one  outburst  of  impassionated  eloquence — his  whole  heart 
and  soul  seemed  to  be  in  it.  Sydney  listened  with  profound 
sympathy.  Mr.  Nolan  himself  could  hardly  hope  more  ar- 
dently than  did  she  now,  that  the  unhappy  prisoner  might  go 
forth  free.  But  the  hope  was  in  vain,  the  trial  ended,  the  sen- 
tence was  a  light  one,  most  people  thought — four  years. 

"  She  heard  it  with  stony  calm,"  narrated  Mrs.  Graham,  with  a 
half  sob  ;  "  but  she  grasped  Lewis  Nolan's  hand  as  he  held  it  out 
to  her,  and  kissed  it.  '  I  will  never  see  you  again,'  she  said  ; 
'  L  will  never  live  to  come  out.  My  sentence  is  just ;  but  all  my 
life  I  will  thank  and  pray  for  you."  I  cried,  I  assure  you,  as  if 
my  heart  would  break,"  said  Mrs.  Graham,  who  cried  as  if  that 
organ  would  break  on  the  smallest  provocation.  "Death  was 
impiinted  on  her  face,  poor  thing;  and  for  Lewis  himself,  he 
hardly  looked  better." 

That  evening  a  little  note  from  Lucy  reached  Sydney. 

"  DEAR,"  it  said,  "  come  to-morrow.     I  am  sick  in  body  an</ 


306  "ONE    YELLOW  NEW  YEAR  NIGHT." 

sick  at  heart.     Let  me  see  your  bright  face,  and  tell  you  my 
troubles.  LUCY." 

It  was  so  rare  a  thing  for  patient  Lucy  to  complain  that  Syd- 
ney was  troubled.  She  went  to  the  opera  in  the  evening,  and 
the  celebrated  Mr.  Van  Cuyler,  the  pet  this  winter  of  the  best 
metropolitan  society,  came  into  their  box,  and  in  a  Sultan-like  way 
made  himself  agreeable  to  her ;  but  she  was  distrait,  answered 
at  random,  heard  the  singing  as  in  a  dream,  and  had  a  restless 
and  broken  night,  haunted  now  by  the  pale  face  of  the  sister, 
now  by  the  dark  face  of  the  brother.  It  was  a  relief  when, 
luncheon  over,  she  could  start  for  the  cottage. 

She  invariably  walked  now  ;  she  liked  walking  for  walking's 
sake,  and  reached  the  house  with  cheeks  like  pale  pink  roses. 
The  house-door  was  only  closed,  not  locked.  She  never  waited 
to  knock  now.  She  opened  it,  and  entered,  opened  the  parlor 
door,  and  looked  in.  The  blinds  were  closed,  green  dusk  filled 
the  room  ;  but  through  the  twilight  she  could  discern  a  figure 
lying  on  the  sofa.  She  went  forward  softly,  and  knelt  down. 

"  Mrs.  Nolan,"  she  said,  slightly  touching  the  cheek  with  her 
hand,  "are  you  asleep?  It  is  I — Sydney." 

The  figure  started  upright,  and  she  saw  that  it  was  Lewis, 
who  had  been  lying  motionless,  his  face  upon  his  arm.  Sydney 
sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Mr.  Nolan  ! " 

It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  since  they  had  met,  and  the  change 
in  him  positively  shocked  her.  Worn  and  haggard,  hollow-eyed 
and  thin,  something  more  than  Mrs.  Harland's  trial  was  at 
work  there. 

"  You — you  are  not  ill  ?"  she  said,  with  a  gasp. 

He  passed  his  hand  with  an  impatient  sigh,  a  gesture  of  spirit- 
less weariness  across  his  forehead. 

"  111  ?  Oh,  no — I  never  was  ill  in  my  life — only  a  little  used 
up  after  my  labors." 

"  You  are  looking  badly.  I  am  sorry  your  cause  has  lost, 
Mr.  Nolan,"  she  said,  gently. 

"Thank  you,"  he  returned,  in  the  same  half  apathetic  way. 
"  It  was  justice,  I  suppose,  and  justice  must  be  done  though  the 
heavens  fall.  '  Burning  for  burning — an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  life 
for  a  life  ;'  it  holds  as  good  to-day  as  in  the  old  Levitical  times. 
They  have  killed  her  as  surely  as  if  they  had  hanged  her — it  is 
only  a  question  of  time." 

"  I  am  very  sorry." 


•'ONE    YELLOW  NEW  I  EAR  NIGHT."  307 

"  You  are  kind  ;  but  why  should  you  be  pained  by  such  hor- 
rors aj  all  ?  Do  not  think  of  it.  Lucy  expects  you,  I  fancy. 
This  miserable  business  has  upset  her  too,  on  my  account,  as  if 
she  had  not  enough  to  endure  already." 

Sydney  ascended  to  the  upper  room.  Lucy  was  not  in  bed  ; 
she  was  in  her  large  invalid  chair,  with  the  little  book  she  so 
dearly  loved  in  her  hand,  the  "  Imitation." 

"  Reading  poetry,"  Sydney  said,  kissing  her.  "  Nobody  can 
equal  A'Kempis.  What  is  the  trouble  now,  dear  ? — that  weary 
pain  again  ?  " 

"  No,  no — if  it  were  only  that !  Physical  pain  is  not  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  bear." 

"  You  have  been  crying,"  Sydney  said,  "  you  who  never  cry 
Lucy,  what  is  this  ?  " 

'  Lewis  is  down-stairs  ;  have  you  seen  him  ?" 

'  Yes.     Is  it  the  loss  of  the  trial  ?     Dear  Lucy " 

'  No,  no,  no  ;  that  I  expected.     It  is •" 

'  What?"  Sydney  almost  sharply  cried. 
'  That  Lewis  is  going  away." 

A  stifled  sob  broke  from  her,  as  she  laid  her  head  on  her 
friend's  shoulder.  There  was  silence — then  : 

"  This  is  very  sudden,  is  it  not  ? "  Miss  Owenson  asked, 
quietly,  almost,  it  might  have  been  thought,  coldly.  "  Has  the 
verdict  affected  him  then  so  greatly?" 

"  It  is  not  the  verdict,  although  that  has  something  to  do 
with  it.  He  has  been  thinking  of  it  for  over  a  year." 

"  But  he  is  Mr.  Graham's  partner,  and  his  prospects  seem 
excellent.  Is  this  not  a  rather  foolish  notion  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  not,  Mr.  Graham  himself  thinks  not.  He 
would  have  gone  a  year  ago,  but  that  I  was  so  ill." 

"  You  are  not  particularly  well  now." 

"  No ;  but  if  he  feels  he  must  go,  dearly  as  I  love  him,  inex- 
pressibly as  I  shall  miss  him,  I  will  not  bid  him  stay." 

"  Where  does  he  propose  to  go  ?  " 

"  To  California — to  Sacramento.  He  has  a  friend  in  that 
city,  with  more  business  by  far  than  he  can  attend  to,  and  he 
has  written  again  and  again  for  Lewis  to  join  him.  It  is  just 
the  opening  Lewis  wants,  with  his  talents  and  energy,  for  he  is 
talented,  you  know,  Sydney." 

"1  know,  dear,"  a  little  tremor  in  the  clear  voice.  "And 
he  is  going — when  ?" 

"  Early  in  March.  He  will  write  and  tell  his  friend  so  this 
week.  Oh,  Sydney  !  Sydney  ! " 


308  "ONE    YELLOW  NE W   YEAR  NIGHT." 

She  hung  her  arms  around  her  friend's  neck,  and  held  her 
close,  sobbing  as  that  friend  had  never  heard  her  sob  before. 
Sydney  held  her  without  a  word  ;  but  perhaps  Lucy  Nolan 
needed  no  words  to  know  that  her  sorrow  was  keenly  felt. 

Miss  Owenson  remained  later  than  usual  this  afternoon,  her 
presence  seemed  such  a  comfort  to  Lucy  in  this  new  trouble. 
They  ceased  to  talk  of  the  coming  bereavement,  and  Sydney 
animatedly  gave  Lucy  an  account  of  New  Year's  Day — the 
grand  levee  they  had  held,  in  robes  of  state,  with  darkened 
parlors  and  flaring  gas,  of  the  innumerable  calls,  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  men  as  the  day  grew  older  and  the  champagne  grew 
heady." 

Lucy  absolutely  laughed  aloud,  and  Lewis,  busy  among  sun- 
dry documents,  in  spite  of  a  bad  headache,  listened  with  a 
sense  of  absolute  physical  pain  as  Miss  Owenson's  soft  musical 
peal  reached  him.  He  was  too  much  occupied  to  put  in  an 
appearance  until  tea,  served  in  Lucy's  room  ;  and  as  they  met 
around  the  little  table,  they  four,  Sydney  was  more  than  ever 
struck  by  the  worn  pallor  of  the  young  man's  dark  face. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said  indifferently ;  "  I  will  be  all  right 
again  directly.  A  few  weeks  hard  cramming  in  my  student  days 
used  to  knock  me  up  in  the  same  way.  We  colored  people 
grow  haggard  upon  very  little  provocation,  but  we  are  tough- 
est at  bottom  after  all." 

On  this  evening  Mr.  Nolan  was  of  necessity  Miss  Owen- 
son's  escort  to  Madison  Avenue,  for  the  second  time.  It  was  a 
perfect  night ;  a  yellow,  melting  full  moon  flooded  the  sky  with 
light  and  the  earth  with  amber  haze  ;  it  was  mild  as  Septem- 
ber, the  streets  were  brilliant  with  gas-lit  shops  and  busy  peo- 
ple. 

"  It  is  a  night  like  a  topaz,"  said  Miss  Owenson — "  a  night 
to  be  remembered." 

"  It  is  a  night  I  will  remember  when  my  life  in  New  York  is  a 
dream  of  the  past.  I  am  going  away,  Miss  Owenson — has 
Lucy  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  has  told  me,"  the  young  lady  answers,  in  a  curiously 
constrained  voice. 

"It  is  rather  an  effort  to  pull  up  stakes  and  go;  rather  a 
wrench  to  tear  myself  away  from  poor  Lucy  and  my  mother  ; 
but  I  feel  that  my  chances  are  better  there,  and  I  have  many 
reasons  to  urge  me  to  go." 

"  Your  friends  will  miss  you  very  much — we  will  all  miss 
you,"  Miss  Owenson  says. 


"FAfR  AS  A  STAR."  309 

"  All  ?  "  His  dark  eyes  flash  for  a  moment,  and  he  looks  at 
her.  "  Do  you  mean  that,  I  wonder,  or  is  it  only  the  proper 
thing  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,  as  a  rule,  Mr.  Nolan.  I  certainly  mean 
that.  We  will  miss  you — some  of  us — notably  Mrs.  Graham 
— will  break  our  hearts." 

A  little  tremor,  with  the  soft  laugh. 

"  Mrs.  Graham  has  been  my  very  good  friend  always  ;  I  owe 
her  and  her  husband  more  than  I  can  say,"  Nolan  answers  in  a 
tone  of  feeling. 

There  is  silence,  and  they  walk  on,  and  Sydney  seems  to  feel 
— to  feel  with  a  sharp,  swift  pang  altogether  new — that  it  is 
their  last  walk. 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  "  she  inquires. 

"  The  first  of  March,  probably  five  weeks  from  now,  if  I  can 
be  ready ;  and  I  think  I  can." 

"  Then  this  is  good-night  and  not  good-by  ?  "  she  says. 

"  Good-night  certainly,  and  not  good-by,"  he  answers,  smil- 
ing. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  Mrs.  Graham's  to-morrow  evening?" 

There  is  an  unconscious  wistfulness  in  her  tone,  but  he  does 
not  detect  it. 

"  I  think  not.  These  evenings  out  unfit  me  for  work,  and  I 
shall  not  have  an  hour  to  spare  before  I  go." 

"  Good-night,"  she  says,  abruptly. 

She  runs  up  the  steps,  rings,  is  admitted,  and  goes  at  once 
to  her  own  room.  Her  heart  is  full  of  bitterness,  full  of  impa- 
tient pain,  full  of  wounded  pride  and  feeling,  full  of  anger  at 
herself.  She  sits  down  and  lays  her  head  miserably  on  the 
table,  and  knows  fully  for  the  first  time  that  what  Sir  Harry 
Leonard  has  sought  in  vain  Lewis  Nolan  has  won,  unsought. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  FAIR   AS   A   STAR." 

]OVE  troubles  are  like  other  troubles,  they  seldom  come 
singly.     Lewis  Nolan  might  exasperate  his  best  friends 
by  his  stoical  indifference  to  beauty  and  fortune,  but 
other  gentlemen   possessed  more   appreciative    taste. 
1  •'on-most  among  them  was  the  son  of  the  house,  Captain  Dick 


310  "FAIR  AS  A 

Macgregor.  Early  in  February  Captain  Macgregor  was  to  go 
where  glory  awaited  him  ;  his  furlough  would  expire,  and  he 
must  return  to  his  duty  and  the  banks  of  the  Potomac.  This 
was  why,  perhaps,  so  gloomy  a  change  came  o'er  his  warlike 
brow,  why  he  fell  into  moody  reveries,  and  sighed  like  a  fur- 
nace, why  he  lost  his  appetite,  and  weighed  five  pounds  less 
than  his  usual  one  hundred  and  sixty,  why  he  sat  like  a  death's 
head  at  the  family  banquet,  why  melancholy  had  marked  him  for 
her  own.  On  the  other  hand,  as  Captain  Dick  liked  his  camp 
life,  with  all  its  hardships  and  skirmishes,  much  better  than  the 
switch-cane  and  kid-glove  swelldom  of  Broadway,  it  is  just  as 
likely  it  was  not.  But  spirits  and  small  talk,  appetite  and  "  airy 
laughter,"  the  young  man  had  lost,  beyond  doubt ;  and  instead 
of  awaking  sympathy,  his  altered  visage  was  made  game  of  in 
the  social  circle. 

"  'And  'mid  his  mirth  'twas  often  strange,'  " 

quotes  Miss  Katie  Macgregor,  doubling  up  her  hand  and  gaz- 
ing at  her  brother  as  if  he  were  a  work  of  art, 

"  '  How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  change, 
His  looks  o'ercast  and  lower.' 

"  Where  is  your  appetite  gone  to,  dearest  Richard  ?  It  has 
struck  me  of  late  that  '  green  and  yellow  melancholy,'  like  '  the 
worm  i'  the  bud,'  is  preying  on  your  damask  cheek.  How 
does  it  strike  you,  Syd  ?  " 

"  It  strikes  me,"  says  Miss  Owenson,  "  that  Dick  is  growing 
unpleasantly  like  the  misanthropic  skipper  in  the  poem — 

"  '  His  arms  across  his  breast, 

His  stern  brow  firmly  knitted,  and  his  iron  lip  compressed.' " 

"  That  sort  of  gentleman  has  heretofore  been  my  ideal,  but 
I  begin  to  find  ideals  in  real  life  are  mistakes.  If  pouring  your 
sorrows  into  our  sympathetic  ears,  Dick,  will  relieve  you,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  pour." 

Captain  Macgregor  looks  gloomily  toward  Miss  Owenson. 
The  hour  of  his  departure  is  here ;  he  may  never  return,  and 
she  can  chaff. 

"  Knitted  ?  "  pursues  Katie,  still  regarding  Dick  with  the  eye 
of  a  connoisseur.  "  Well,  yes,  he  does  remind  one  a  little  of 
the  industrious  old  lady  who,  when  she  had  nothing  else  to 
knit,  knit  her  brows." 


"FAIR  AS  A   STAR"  311 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Katie  !"  exclaims  Dick,  with  a  look  of 
disgust,  "  spare  us  jokes  of  such  ghastly  antiquity  as  that.  Per. 
petual  silence  is  better  than  the  threadbare  facetiousness  of  an 
ancient  almanac." 

"  Emmy  Vinton  can't  have  refused  him,"  goes  on  Katie,  med- 
itatively;  "her  attentions  of  late  to  the  heir  of  this  house  have 
been  painfully  prononce.  Can  it  be  that  she  only  lured  him  on 
to  make  the  final  blow  more  bitter  ?  " 

"  Shows  very  bad  taste  on  Miss  Vinton's  part  if  she  has," 
laughed  Sydney,  rising  from  breakfast,  at  which  matutinal  re- 
past this  family  conclave  has  taken  place. 

Although  Miss  Owenson  could  laugh  at  Captain  Dick  with- 
out the  faintest,  remotest  idea  that  she  was  in  any  way  the  cause 
of  his  gentle  melancholy,  she  was  by  no  means  in  very  high 
spirits  just  at  present. 

Her  semi-weekly  visits  to  the  Nolan  cottage  continued  as 
usual  ;  she  was  far  too  proud  to  stay  away  now,  although  she 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  meeting  there  the  son  and  brother. 
She  never  did  meet  him.  Mr.  Nolan  knew  her  visiting  days, 
and  on  these  days  lingered  an  extra  hour  in  the  office.  Evi- 
dently he  wished  to  avoid  her.  Did  he  suspect  the  truth  ? 
Alone,  as  she  was,  when  the  thought  flashed  upon  her,  the 
scarlet  blood  leaped  over  her  cheek  and  brow,  dyeing  both  a 
burning,  shameful,  terrified  crimson.  It  could  hardly  be,  and 
yet — that  he  avoided  meeting  her  at  his  mother's  was  palpable. 
The  red  tide  slowly  ebbed,  leaving  her  as  white  as  the  white 
cashmere  morning  robe  she  wore. 

"  My  g°mg  there  must  cease,"  she  thought,  "  at  least  become 
infrequent,  until  he  goes.  After  that  I  may  surely  visit  Lucy 
as  much  as  I  please." 

Her  lip  quivered  slightly,  with  a  sense  of  wounded  pride,  per. 
haps,  but  with  a  deeper  feeling  beside.  And  from  that  day, 
once  a  week  was  as  olten  as  Sydney  could  find  time  to  visit  her 
friend. 

Lucy  was  poorly,  these  January  days  ;  and  the  sea-gray  eyes, 
wonderfully  like  her  brother's,  would  gaze  in  silent  reproach  at 
Miss  O\venson  when  she  came. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear,"  Sydney  said,  kissing  her.  "  I  know  I 
should  have  been  here  before,  but  indeed  I  am  very  busy.  '  Krom 
sport  to  sport  they  hurry  me,'  etc.  I  am  on  a  sort  of  treadmill.. 
my  I. .icy,  where  once  on,  to  stop  is  impossible." 

••  You  go  out  too  much,  I  am  afraid,"  Lucy  returnee!,  clasping 
in  both  her  fragile  ones  the  warm  jewelled  hands  of  her  friend. 


3«  "FAIR  AS  A  STAR" 

"  Dissipation  does  not  agree  with  you.  You  never  had  much 
color,  but  you  are  growing  white  as  a  lily,  and  as  thin." 

"Are  lilies  thin  ?"  laughed  Sydney.  "  It  is  news  to  me  that 
lilies  lose  flesh.  Too  much  dancing  and  dressing,  gaslight  and 
glitter,  are  not  conducive  to  rosy  bloom.  But  I  am  wonderfully 
strong,  I  never  even  have  a  headache — that  pet  feminine  disorder. 
My  patient  Lucy,  1  wish  I  could  give  you  a  little  of  my  super- 
abundant vitality." 

"  You  do  when  you  come  ;  if  I  saw  you  everyday  I  believe  I 
should  grow  well.  Yet  it  is  selfish  to  wish  to  bring  you  to  this 
room,  although  your  very  presence  is  a  tonic." 

Sydney  laid  her  fair  rounded  cheek  tenderly,  pitifully  against 
the  hollow,  wasted  one  of  the  friend  she  loved. 

"Wait  a  little,  dear,"  she  said,  softly.  "When  Lent  begins, 
dissipation  must  cease  ;  and  then  even  every  day  may  not  be  too 
often  for  me  to  find  my  way  here." 

"  And  do  penance,"  supplements  Lucy,  with  a  little  laugh  that 
ends  in  a  little  sigh.  "  Lewis  will  be  gone  then — how  lonely  we 
shall  be." 

Miss  Owenson  is  silent,  but  her  fair  head  still  rests  in  sympathy 
on  Lucy's  pillow,  and,  perhaps,  in  the  way  women  know  these 
things,  Lewis  Nolan's  sister  knows  that  her  trouble  was  felt. 

Sydney  was  very  busy — was  on  a  sort  of  social  treadmill  as 
she  said,  from  which  there  seemed  no  escape,  even  if  escape  she 
wished.  But  she  did  not  wish  very  strongly — it  was  pleasant 
enough  to  meet  kindly  new  faces,  and  be  petted,  and  admired, 
and  made  much  of,  wherever  she  went.  She  was  tolerably  used 
to  admiration,  and  so  that  it  was  not  offensively  paraded  did  not 
dislike  it.  Mrs.  Graham  regarded  her  with  eyes  of  silent  reproach. 
Was  she  a  frivolous  "  butterfly  of  fashion,"  like  the  rest?  Sydney 
understood  the  look,  and  smiled  rather  bitterly  to  herself. 

"  She  thinks  it  is  my  fault  he  is  going,"  Miss  Owenson  thought. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  Lewis  Nolan  is  going  away  ?  "  Mrs. 
Graham  asks,  looking  the  young  lady  full  in  the  face. 

"  Mr.  Nolan  ?  Oh,  yes,  his  sister  told  me — he  mentioned  it 
afterward  to  me  himself.  A  very  good  thing,  is  it  not,  for  him  ?  " 
inquires  Miss  Owenson,  calmly.  "  Although  you  will  miss  him," 
she  laughingly  adds,  as  an  afterthought. 

"  Although  you  will  miss  him,"  and  she  smiles  as  she  says  it. 
Mr.  Nolan  may  go,  and  deeply  and  keenly  Miss  Owenson  may 
feel  it ;  but  the  role  of  the  "  maiden  all  forlorn"  is  one  she  is  not 
prepared  to  play  for  ai  y  man  alive. 

January  goes  out  and  February  comes  in,  and  in  three  days 


"FAIR  AS  A   STAR."  313 

Captain  Macgregor  depart;  upon  the  war-path.  Deeper  and 
deeper  grows  the  gloom  that  mantles  his  manly  brow.  Fear, 
wild  hopi,  d-irk  despair  alternately  play  upon  his  vitals.  So 
many  men  are  after  her — Van  Cnyler,  the  best  match  in  the  city 
among  the  rest — what  chance  has  he,  without  beauty  or  brains, 
as  his  engagingly  frank  sister  has  told  him, with  nothing  to  offer  but 
his  captain's  pay  and  the  deepest  devotion  of  an  admiring  heart, 
etc.  ?  There  are  times  when  he  resolves  to  rush  away,  and 
bury  his  secret  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  soul,  others 
when  hope  reigns  paramount  and  he  resolves  to  pour  out  his 
passion  before  her.  Complicating  feelings  tear  him,  and  he 
becomes  a  spectacle  of  pity  to  men  and  gods. 

"  if  anything  were  preying  on  my  mind,"  remarks  his  sister,  one 
day,  casting  up  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  apparently  addressing 
the  observation  to  the  chandelier,  "  I  would  speak  out  or  perish  ! 
No  secret  sorrow  should  consume  my  heart — not  if  I  knew  my- 
self, and  the  object  of  that  secret  sorrow  my  own  third  cousin. 

"  She  is  a  woman — therefore  may  be  wooed  ; 
She  is  a  woman — therefore  may  be  won." 

Miss  Macgregor  sailed  out  of  the  room  as  she  concluded. 
Dick  never  looked  up  from  the  book  he  was  not  reading.  In 
the  back  drawing-room  Sydney  sat  playing  softly  to  herself, 
dreamy  Mozartian  melodies.  After  a  moment's  deliberation 
he  threw  down  his  novel  and  went  in  to  join  her.  The  gas  was 
turned  low,  so  that  his  sudden  paleness  was  the  less  observable, 
and  the  soft  musical  murmur  drowned  the  dull  heavy  thumping 
of  his  heart. 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  welcome.  Of  all  the  house- 
hold she  liked  Dick  best,  and  was  really  sorry  to  see  him  go. 
Hut  of  the  wild  work  she  had  made  inside  the  blue  and  brass 
she  never  for  a  moment  dreamed.  A  coquette  in  the  very  least, 
in  the  most  innocent  way,  Sydney  Owenson  was  not ;  she  was 
ignorant  of  the  very  rudiments  of  the  profession.  Dick  and 
she  were  good  friends  and  distant  cousins,  nothing  more. 

The  melancholy  "Moonlight  Sonata"  changed,  and,  with  a 
mischievous  upward  look,  "  Partant  po ur  la  Syrie  "  began  the 
young  lady.  Dick  gave  her  no  answering  smile  ;  he  leaned 
moodily  against  the  piano  with  folded  anus,  and  looked  down 
at  the  slender  white  hand  on  which  diamonds  and  opals  shim- 
mered in  the  soft  light. 

"  Dick,  how  .lismal  you  look,"  she  says,  half  laughing.  "  K 
I  did  not  know  what  a  fire-eater  you  are,  I  should  think  war  and 
14 


3M  "FAIR  AS   A   STAR." 

its  glories  were  depressing  your  spirits.  I  must  work  a  scarf  fol 
our  young  knight  before  he  returns  to  the  battle-field  ;  and  Em- 
ma Vinton — little  Emmy,  who  is  dying  for  you,  Dick — shall  tie 
it  round  your  arm,  d  la  Millais'  '  Huguenot  Lovers  ! ' ' 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  give  it  to  Emmy  Vinton  when  it  is 
worked?"  says  Dick,  in  an  agitated  voice.  "I  should  value  it 
more  if  some  one  else  tied  it  on." 

"  Should  you  ?  "  Sydney  says,  opening  her  eyes.  "  Poor  little 
Emmy  !  Who,  Dick  ?  " 

"  You  !  "  says  Dick  Macgregor. 

"I?" 

"You — you,  Sydney — you  !  "  he  replies,  in  a  voice  that  trem- 
bles with  the  intensity  of  the  passion  he  represses.  "  Oh,  don't, 
don't  say  you  never  knew  this  !  " 

"  I — never — did,"   slowly  and  blankly  Sydney  answers. 

"  But  now  that  you  do  know,  you  will  not — Sydney,  you  will 
not  send  me  away  !  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  1  know  that.  I 
have  been  afraid  to  speak,  but  I  had  to  tell  you  before  I  went. 
Give  me  just  the  least  hope  ;  I  will  not  ask  too  much.  I  love 
you  so  dearly " 

"  Oh,  Dick,  hush  ! "  she  cries  out,  shrinking  away  ;  "  don't, 
don't  say  another  word.  Oh,  how  stupid  and  blind  I  must  have 
been  !  How  sorry  I  am  for  this  ! " 

"  Sydney,  are  you  going  to  send  me  away  ?  Is  there  no  hope 
for  me  ?  I  know  I  am  not  worthy " 

"Worthy!  Hush!  hush!"  she  interrupts;  "it  gives  me 
pain  to  hear  you.  You  are  most  worthy,  and  I  like  you,  but — 
not  in  that  way." 

"There  is  no  hope  for  me,  then?"  Dick  says,  hoarsely. 

"  None.  I  am  sorry — sorrier  than  sorry  ;  but  you  must  never 
speak  to  me  of  this  again. 

There  is  blank  silence  for  a  little.  Dick  stands  and  stares  at 
a  picture  on  the  wall — a  simpering  young  person,  in  a  short  red 
petticoat  and  white  bodice,  about  to  wade,  barefoot,  across  a 
very  blue  brook.  And  months  after,  in  misty  moonlight  nights, 
lying  beside  his  bivouac  fire,  smoking  his  short,  black  pipe,  and 
looking  up  at  the  shining  Virginia  stars,  Captain  Macgregor  sees 
the  simpering  young  person  in  the  short  petticoat,  with  a  curi- 
ous sensation  that  she  is  the  cause  of  the  sharp,  hot  pain  that 
goes  with  the  memory. 

"  Dick,"  Sydney  falters  at  last,  looking  up,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  touching  wistfully  his  arm — "dear  Dick,  you  are  not 
angry  ?  " 


"FAIR  AS  A   STAR."  315 

"  Angry,"  he  answers,  in  an  odd,  hushed  sort  of  voice.  "  No. 
God  bless  you,  Sydney  ! " 

He  goes  abruptly,  drawing  a  deep,  hard  breath,  and  pres- 
ently the  street-door  bangs  after  him  ;  and  Sister  Katie,  on  the 
watch-tower,  knows  that  he  has  gone  out  to  cool  off,  and  has 
put  his  fate  to  the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all — and  has  probably 
lost.  For  Dick's  success  his  sharp-sighted  sister  has  had  no 
hope  from  the  first. 

Miss  Owenson's  sympathies  have  ever  been  quick,  but  just  at 
present  she  is  more  than  ordinarily  capable  of  sympathy  foi 
Dick.  "  A  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind."  The  sur- 
prise of  this  evening  has  been  a  most  distressing  one.  The 
mystery  of  Captain  Dick's  gloom  is  solved,  but  Sydney  would 
have  greatly  preferred  it  had  ever  remained  a  mystery. 

"  To-morrow  night  is  the  night,"  says  Miss  Macgregor,  saun- 
tering in — "  a  night  big  with  fate  for  me  ;  for  it  is  my  intention 
to  bring  things  to  a  focus  with  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  The  old 
gentleman  has  been  rather  backsliding  lately — rather  inclined 
to  shift  his  allegiance  to  the  Widow  Chester.  I  hate  widows." 

"  Yes,  thev  are  dangerous ;  we  never  needed  Mr.  Weller  to 
tell  us  that,"  laughs  Sydney.  "  But  pray  remember  poor  Mr. 
Vanderdonck  was  fidelity  itself  until  you  set  him  the  example 
by  paying  attentions  to  Mr.  Van  Cuyler." 

"And  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  ignores  me  for  you.  Mr.  Vander- 
donck goes  over  to  the  enemy,  and  Lewis  Nolan  goes  to 
foreign  parts. 

"  Was  there  ever  a  maid  in  all  this  world 
So  crossed  in  love  as  I  ?  " 

sings  Katherine,  lugubriously,  and  with  a  piercing  look  at  Syd- 
ney. 

Hut  Sydney's  face  baffles  -her  ;  it  lies  back,  pale  and  rather 
spiritless  against  her  blue  cushioned  chair. 

"  What  is  that  you  are  reading  ?  Oh  !  the  Phenix  Monthly 
ind  Van  Cuyler's  new  novel.  How  do  you  like  it  ?" 

"  As  well  as  most  novels.  They  are  all  alike — with  a  differ- 
ence," Sydney  responds,  rather  listlessly.  "They  all  sing  the 
same  song  of  woman's  peerless  beauty,  man's  deathless  devo- 
tion, or  rice  versd,  with  a  proper  symphony  of  jealousy, 
heroism,  total  depravity,  or  superhuman  self  abnegation." 

"  Hut  they  set  the  song  to  different  tunes,"  says  Katherine  ; 
"  and  Van  Cuyler's  is  like  himself,  stately  and — slow.  Do  you 
know  what  I  believe?" 


316  "FAIR  AS  A   STAR.'" 

"  Your  beliefs  are  so  many,  my  dear  Katie " 

"  I  believe  that  Van  Cuyler  has  taken  you  for  the  heroine  of 
his  new  story,  '  Fair  as  a  Star.'  " 

"  Very  complimentary  to  me — so  complimentary  that  I  am 
sorry  1  cannot  agree  with  you." 

"  Why  can  you  not  ?  The  description  tallies  exactly — tall, 
fair,  golden  hair,  blue  eyes,  a  complexion  of  pearl,  a  slender, 
graceful  figure  ;  that  is  you,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  extremely  kind  of  you  to  say  so.  Pray,  do  not  expect 
me  to  answer  a  question  of  that  delicate  nature." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  And  the  man  is  in  love  with  you — that  is 
as  much  as  the  consuming  passion  he  cherishes  for  himself  will 
allow  him.  It  is  patent  to  the  dullest  observer." 

"  I  must  be  a  very  dull  observer  then,  for  it  is  by  no  means 
patent  tome.  Mr.  Ernest  Vandervekle  Van  Cuyler — that  is  his 
distinguished  name  in  full,  is  it  not  ? — has  certainly  stooped  from 
those  heights  of  high-and-mighty-dom  whereon  genius  dwells,  to 
honor  me  with  his  notice  on  several  festive  occasions.  Overpow- 
ering as  the  honor  is,  I  have  survived  it,  as  you  see,  and  though 
it  should  be  repeated  to-morrow  night,  still  hope  to  do  so." 

"  Sydney,"  says  Katie,  with  real  solemnity,  "  answer  me  this  : 
If  Ernest  Van  Cuyler — rich,  aristocratic,  talented,  famous, 
handsome — asks  you  to  marry  him,  will  you  say  no?" 

"Katie,"  responds  Sydney,  taking  an  easier  position  in  her 
easy  chair,  "when  Mr.  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  asks  me,  I  will — an- 
swer Ernest  Van  Cuyler.  Now  please  spare  my  blushes." 

"  I  believe,  after  all,  she  is  engaged  to  the  baronet,"  rumi- 
nates Katie  Macgregor;  "she  has  refused  Dick,  and  doesn't 
seem  to  care  whether  Lewis  Nolan  goes  or  stays.  And  unless 
she  is  engaged  to  Sir  Harry,  she  never  in  her  senses  would  re- 
ject Van  Cuyler." 

For  Ernest  Vandervelde  Van  Cuyler  was  a  very  great  man  in 
very  many  ways.  The  oldest  of  all  old  Knickerbocker  families 
was  his,  and  if  Mr.  V.  V.  C.  had  a  fault,  it  was  that  he  was 
rather  too  fond  of  "  shinning  up  his  genealogical  tree."  The 
family  homestead  was  as  ancient  as  the  first  Dutch  settlement 
of  Manhattan,  and  that  is  blue  blood  surely  in  New  York.  He 
was  rich — held  indeed,  the  purse  of  a  Fortunatus.  He  was 
clever — his  novel  of  "  Hard  Hit,"  two  years  before,  had  hit  the 
public  fancy ;  the  press  called  it  an  American  "  Pelham,"  and 
predicted  great  things  for  this  rising  genius,  and  the  rest  of  the 
press  chopped  it  in  vinegir,  and  the  more  they  chopped  the 
better  the  book  sold.  Jn  addition  to  all  these  virtues,  he  wa* 


"FAIR  AS  A   STAR."  317 

most  unnecessarily  good  looking — a  tall,  blonde,  melancholy 
Hamlet,  with  cold,  colorless  eyes,  and  the  general  air  of  an 
exiled  prince.  A  trifle  self  conscious  maybe,  no  end  conceited, 
and  looking  out  of  those  cold  blue  eyes  of  his  upon  all  the  d^li- 
cate  loveliness  of  New  York  belle  dom  perfectly  unmoved. 
They  sharpened  their  toy  bows  and  arrows,  did  those  fair 
daughters  of  Gotham,  and  took  aim  often  and  well ;  but  this 
gold-plumaged  bird  of  paradise  flew  too  high  for  their  shooting. 
And  it  was  Sydney  Owenson  who  in  her  secret  heart  thought 
him  a  prig  and  a  bore,  at  whose  shrine  Prince  Charming  seemed 
at  last  inclined  to  bow. 

It  was  Carnival  time :  next  week  Lent  would  begin,  and  the 
last  ball  of  the  season  was  to  be  a  very  grand  one.  Miss  Owen- 
son  in  white  lace — an  imported  dress  fit  for  a  lady-in  waiting, 
and  pearls  and  creamy-white  roses,  looked  like  a  vision,  and  so 
Mr.  Van  Cuyler  seemed  to  think.  In  a  dignified  and  uplifted 
way  he  paid  court  to  her  all  night.  He  was  harder  hit  than 
even  sharp-sighted  Katie  suspected,  and  more  than  once — still 
uplifted — made  an  effort  to  obtain  a  private  audience.  But 
Sydney's  intuitions  were  correct  here,  and  she  skilfully  evaded 
it.  Perhaps  she  thought  one  declaration  in  a  week  quite 
enough  !  Dick's  dreary  face  made  her  miserable  whenever  she 
looked  at  it.  Not  that  it  would  give  her  the  same  pain  to  refuse 
Mr.  Van  Cuyler,  but  refusing  was  tiresome  and  profitless  work 
to  one  not  brought  up  to  the  business.  So,  although  the  "  tal- 
ented young  author"  did  his  best,  made  his  attentions  so  pro- 
nounced that  he  who  ran  might  read,  Miss  Owenson,  with  the 
calm  generalship  which  comes  naturally  to  women,  out-mano2U- 
vered  every  move.  Not  once  could  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  find  him- 
self alone  with  her. 

But  next  day  at  luncheon,  there  lay  beside  her  plate  a  letter 
— a  square,  determined-looking  letter,  in  almost  illegible  chir- 
ography. 

"  Are  you  certain  it  is  for  me  ?  "  says  Sydney,  eying  it  dubi- 
ously, and  trying  to  decipher  her  own  name.  "  If  it  were 
a  doctor's  dun,  or  a  lawyer's  bill,  the  writing  could  not  be 
worse." 

"  Or  an  author's  autograph,"  says  Katie,  maliciously. 
"  Hand  it  here.  To  be  sure — '  Miss  Sydney  Owenson,'  any- 
body might  read  it — after  studying  it  ten  minutes.  Monogram 
in  scarlet  and  go'd,  '  E.  V.  C.',  all  quij  s  and  quirls — pale  gray 
wax,  with  a  coat  of  arms,  an.1  a  motto  in  one  of  the  dead  lan- 
guages." 


3*8  "FAIR  AS  A   STAR." 

"  Irish,  maybe,"  suggests  Dick.  It  is  his  last  day  home,  and 
no  one  smiles  at  the  ghostly  attempt. 

Sydney  put  it  quietly  in  her  pocket.  Instinctively  she  felt 
what  it  contained,  felt  that  it  was  a  letter  not  to  be  read  here. 
Luncheon  ended,  she  went  up-stairs  and  opened  Mr.  Van  Cuv- 
ler's  elegant  epistle : 

"  CLARENDON  HOTEL,   Feb.  6th,  18 — 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  OWENSON." 

That  much  Sydney  could  make  out  without  much  difficulty, 

but  the  rest Fortunately  it  was  not  long  ;  authors,  as  a  rule. 

whatever  their  sins,  are  seldom  guilty  of  long  letters.  This  was 
three  small  pages,  no  more.  Conscientiously  Sydney  set  herself 
to  the  task,  half-an-hour  to  each  page,  and  by  dint  of  skipping 
a  word  here,  guessing  a  word  there,  reached  the  end  at  last.  If 
his  writing  was  bad,  his  English  was  good  ;  in  the  most  courtly 
and  grandiose  manner  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  told  the  tale  of  his  love, 
and  asked  Miss  Owenson  to  become  his  wife. 

Sydney  sighed  a  little  as  she  laid  it  down.  After  all,  to  win 
trie  affections  of  such  men  Sir  Harry  Leonard  and  Ernest  Van 
Cuyler  was  an  honor.  Why  was  it  she  could  feel  no  answering 
affection  for  either?  Why  was  it  that  erratic  heart  of  hers,  un- 
touched all  these  years,  had  gone  at  last,  unasked,  to  a  man 
whom  her  world  would  have  called  beneath  her  ? — a  man  far 
less  handsome,  and  no  more  talented  than  Van  Cuyler,  with 
neither  name  nor  fortune  to  offer  her?  Why  did  she  care  for 
him  ?  Why  did  his  face  haunt  her  so  persistently,  his  voice 
sound  ceaselessly  in  her  ear,  his  most  careless  words  linger  in 
her  memory  ?  Why  could  she  not  forget  him  ?  What  was  there 
in  him  or  about  him,  beyond  other  men,  that  he  and  he  alone 
should  have  power  to  disturb  her  peace  ? 

"  Curious  fool  be  still — 
Is  human  love  the  growth  of  human  will  ?  " 

Surely  not,  for  Sydney  Owenson  had  never  willed  to  fall  in 
love  with  Lewis  Nolan. 

That  very  same  night  Mr.  Van  Cuyler  received  his  answer; 
next  morning  he  departed  from  New  York  ;  a  week  later,  and  on 
a  Havre  steamer  he  was  half-way  across  the  Atlantic.  Perhaps 
the  author  of  "Hard  Hit"  and  "Fair  as  a  Star"  was  right — 
there  can  no  more  effectual  remedy  for  love-sickness  than  sea- 


TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM.  319 

sickness.     It  was  a  short  answer,  too,  to  send  a  man  on  so  long 
a  journey : 

"  DEAK  MR.  VAN  CUYLER  :  Your  letter  has  touched  me 
deeply  ;  believe  me  1  feel  all  the  honor  your  preference  does 
me  quite  as  much  as  if  I  accepted.  But  I  cannot  accept.  1  do 
not  love  you.  I  never  can.  Regretting  that  I  should  give  you 
pain,  I  am, 

"  Very  sincerely,  your  friend, 

«'  SYDNEY  OWENSON. 

"  P.  S. — My  decision  is  irrevocable.  I  trust  you  will  not 
heedlessly  pain  us  both  by  attempting  to  change  it.  S.  O." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TWILIGHT   IN    LUCY'S    ROOM. 

ND  now  Miss  Owenson  is  rid  of  all  her  lovers,  Dick  de- 
parts for  the  fighting  ground  of  the  South,  and  Ernest 
Van  Cuyler  disappears  all  at  once,  and  is  in  Paris 
before  he  has  been  properly  missed.  He  is  a  young 
man  not  used  to  the  word  No  ;  and  wounded  pride,  and  hurt  self- 
love,  and  mortified  vanity,  have  perhaps  as  much  to  do  with  his 
chagrined  flight  as  the  tender  passion.  In  the  mysterious  way 
these  things  get  wind,  it  is  whispered  about  in  awe-struck  under- 
tones that  Miss  Owenson  has  rejected  him,  f/ie  parti  of  the  season. 
"  Is  she  insane,  I  wonder  ?  "  Mrs.  Macgregor  asks,  rather  bit- 
terly, "to  refuse  Van  Cuyler.  For  whom  is  she  waiting— a 
prince  of  the  blood  royal?"' 

For  Aunt  Helen  is  fiercely  angry  and  disappointed,  not  that 
she  has  rejected  Van  Cuyler,  but  that  she  has  rejected  Dick. 

More  than  even  Katie  suspects  her  mother  has  counted  on 
this  match.  To  keep  the  Owenson  shekels  in  the  family,  to 
pay  her  debts,  to  provide  herself  with  a  home  for  life  free  of  cost 
and  worry — that  has  been  her  dream. 

The  dream  is  at  an  end.     Sydney  has  refused  him,   and  the 
•it  of  her  difficulties  seems  as  far  off  as  ever.      Her  daugh- 
ter i*  disappointing   her  even  more  bitterly  than   her  son  ;    the 
winter  campaign  is  ended,  and  Mr.  Vonderdjnck  has  left  town, 


320  TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM. 

his  own  lord  and  master  still.  In  a  few  months  another  season 
of  expense  and  watering-places  will  begin. 

Katherine  was  five-and-twenty  last  birthday,  and  is  not  grow- 
ing younger  with  every  passing  year.  She  was  one  of  the  innu- 
merable "Marthas"  of  the  world,  "  troubled  and  anxious  about 
many  things,"  and  daily  that  austere  Roman  nose  grew  more  and 
more  austere,  the  cold  blue  eyes  harder  and  more  haggard,  the 
crow's-feet  ploughed  in  deeper  ridges,  and  her  manner  to  her 
cousin's  daughter  as  frigid  as  her  great  respect  for  that  young 
lady's  fortune  would  allow. 

Sunday  in  the  Macgregor  mansion  was  at  all  times  rather  a 
dreary  day — the  Sunday  following  Dick's  departure  more  than  usu- 
ally dreary.  In  the  first  place  it  rained,  not  a  hearty  down-pour, 
but  a  miserable,  ceaseless,  chilling  February  drizzle,  that  blotted 
out  heaven  above  and  earth  beneath,  in  a  wet  blank  of  fog  and 
mist.  Miss  Owenson,  who  was  somewhat  of  a  devotee  in  the 
eyes  of  the  family,  arose  early  and  went  to  church.  Katie  slept  un- 
til noon,  and  came  down,  yawning  and  slipshod,  to  luncheon.  It 
was  a  dismal  meal;  Aunt  Helen's  face*  looked  cold,  and  gray, 
and  hard  as  stone. 

''  Poor  Dick  !  I  wonder  if  they  are  fighting  down  there  in  this 
rain,"  says  Katie.  "What  a  desolate  day  Sunday  is,  and  only 
last  week  they  told  us  in  the  sermon,  that  heaven  would  be  one 
perpetual  Sabbath !  Sunday's  rain  is  wetter,  Sunday's  cold 
colder,  Sunday's  heat  hotter,  and  Sunday's  blues  bluer,  than  any 
other  of  the  week." 

"  Your  mental  thermometer  has  fallen  since  last  night,"  Syd- 
ney remarks.  "  You  were  in  wild,  high  spirits  starting  for  Mrs. 
Holland's  soiree  musicale." 

"  Natural  reaction,  my  dear.  I  am  like  a  bottle  of  champagne, 
all  fizz  and  sparkle  overnight,  dead  fiat  next  morning.  And 
my  last  state  is  worse  than  my  first.  After  all,  I  am  half  glad 
the  wear  and  tear  of  the  season  is  over,  and  Lent  at  hand,  to 
give  us  a  chance  to  recruit.  Even  perpetual  parties  become  a 
bore,  the  theatre  monotonous,  the  opera  a  dreary  delusion. 
Daily  church-going  will  be  a  diversion,  and  1  don't  mind  fasting 
on  rock-fish  and  oysters.  Apropos  of  the  opera,  will  you  go  to 
hear  '  II  Puritani '  in  the  Academy  to-morrow  night  ?" 

"Yes — no — I  don't  know,  I  will  be  better  able  to  tell  you 
when  to-morrow  night  comes,"  Sydney  answers,  wearily. 

The  weather,  the  change  in  Mrs.  Macgregor,  or  something, 
is  producing  its  effect  on  Miss  Owenson's  splendid  vitality 
and  spirits.  To-day  she  looks  pale  and  fagged,  listless  and 


TWILIGHT  IN"  LUCY^S  ROOM.  321 

dreary,  and  the  moment  luncheon  ends  goes  back  to  her  own 
room. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  madre  mio"  says  Katie,  taking  up  a  novel 
and  glancing  carelessly  at  her  parent,  "  that  if  that  Spartan  sever 
ity  of  manner  of  yours  doesn't  thaw  out,  Sydney  Owenson  will 
take  wing  one  of  these  days  and  fly  back  to  her  English  friends 
You  see  she  is  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  ;  she  has  lived  in 
an  atmosphere  of  petting  all  her  life,  and  doesn't  understand  it. 
Mrs.  Owenson  was  one  of  those  weak  characterless  creatures 
who  never  scold  and  make  everybody  about  them  miserable 
for  their  good,  and  Sydney  naturally  doesn't  take  to  it  now.  I 
merely  throw  out  the  suggestion,  mamma  ;  you  will  continue  to 
act  of  course  as  your  superior  wisdom  may  suggest." 

Then,  novel  in  hand,  placidly  ignoring  her  mother's  irritated 
reply,  Katherine  saunters  away  to  read  until  dinner. 

Katherine  was  right ;  Sydney  was  half  meditating  a  flight 
across  the  ocean.  Low  spirits  rarely,  almost  never,  attacked 
her  ;  her  nature  was  thoroughly  strong,  sunny,  and  inclined  to 
"  serve  the  Lord  with  a  cheerful  heart ;  "  but  she  was  miserably 
out  of  sorts  to  day.  How  unkind  of  Aunt  Helen  to  visit  it  upon 
her  that  she  could  not  marry  Dick.  In  spite  of  her  riches  how 
poor  she  was  after  all,  fatherless,  motherless,  homeless — alone. 
She  closed  her  eyes,  and  leaned  her  head,  in  a  tired  way,  against 
the  back  of  her  chair.  If  she  could  only  have  said  ''  Come  " 
to  Sir  Harry  Leonard,  and  sailed  away  with  him  to  the  dear, 
romantic  old  Cornish  house,  where  cold  looks  and  icy  speeches 
would  never  have  embittered  her  life.  And  yet  how  could  she 
go  back  now  ? 

"  If  mamma  had  not  sold  Owenson  Place  I  might  return 
there,  find  some  nice  old  lady  to  keep  house  for  me,  and  have 
a  home,  a  real  home,  a  home  of  my  own  at  last.  Or  if  I  ;ould 
find  Cyrilla  Heudrick — dear  old  Cy — we  might  start  off  to  Italy 
and  be  free  and  happy  in  the  gypsy,  rambling  way  poor  mamma 
and  1  lived  so  long." 

The  rain  beat  and  pattered  against  the  glass  all  day  as  Syd- 
ney sat  homesick  and  lonesome.  She  had  felt  from  the  first 
that  this  house  could  never  be  home,  her  relatives  never  friends. 
She  was  convinced  of  it  now.  To  be  in  Lucy  Nolan's  little 
white  chamber,  with  Lucy's  gentle  face  to  make  her  patient, 
Lucy's  tender  voice  to  soothe  her  sorrows,  would  have  been 
comfort  ;  but  Sunday  was  his  day  home,  and  on  Sunday  sh»» 
never  went. 

Sunday  ended,  and   Monday  morning's   sunshine  and  bustle 
*4* 


322  TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM 

dissipated  the  vapors.  After  all,  what  was  she  that  life  shot  Id 
not  bring  its  dark  days  ?  She  must  take  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  make  up  her  mind  to  life 
as  she  found  it. 

Monday  morning  brought  a  note  from  Lucy  Nolan. 

"  To-morrow  is  Shrove  Tuesday,"  Lucy  wrote  ;  "and  mother 
is  famous  for  her  Shrove  Tuesday  pancakes.  Will  you  not 
come  and  try  one  ?  You  have  not  been  to  see  me  in  five 
days." 

"  Poor  little  Lucy  !  Yes,  I  will  go."  Sydney  thought  half 
remorsefully,  "  why  should  any  foolish  feelings  of  my  own  keep 
me  away  since  my  going  gives  her  pleasure?  She,  poor  child, 
who  has  so  few." 

She  sent  a  brief  word  of  acceptance  with  the  messenger.  In 
the  afternoon  she  went  with  Katherine  to  return  calls  ;  in  the 
evening  she  went  with  her  cousin's  party  to  the  Academy.  It 
was  a  more  than  usually  brilliant  night — bows  and  smiles  greeted 
them  on  every  hand  ;  Miss  Owenson  was  a  universal  favorite  in 
society. 

"  I  said  yesterday,  I  had  no  friends,"  she  thought,  with  a  half 
smile.  "  It  seems  I  was  mistaken.  I  shall  never  lack  friends 
while  I  remain  an  heiress." 

"  Evil  communications,"  etc.  Five  months  of  Katherine 
Macgregor's  society  was  making  even  Sydney  cynical.  She  sat 
rather  silent  in  the  midst  of  her  gay  circle,  lying  listlessly  back 
in  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  stage  and  the  singers, 
Presently  Katie  leaned  forward,  and  spoke  in  a  half  whisper  : 

"  Look,  Sydney,  there  are  the  Graham  family.  That  very 
stylish  girl  in  the  striped  opera-cloak  and  with  the  scarlet  ca- 
melias  is  Mrs.  Graham's  sister.  And — positively,  yes — Lewis 
Nolan  is  with  them.  I  thought  he  had  left  this  wicked  world 
altogether  of  late." 

Sydney  glanced  across,  and  saw  her  large  friend,  Mrs.  Gra- 
ham, as  usual,  in  loudly  swearing  colors,  and  by  her  side  an  ex- 
tremelv  graceful  and  rather  fragile-looking  girl,  in  an  opera 
wrap  of  distinguished  hues.  Leaning  across  Mrs.  Graham' 
chair  was  Lewis  Nolan,  his  eyes  upon  the  prima  donna  of  the 
night,  evidently  absorbed  in  the  music.  The  /oung  lady  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  ind  addressed  him  with  a  coquettish  smile. 
He  bent  his  tall  head  to  catch  her  remark  with  an  amused  ex- 
pression. 

"  What  !  "  exclaimed  a  gentleman  of  Miss  Macgregor's  party, 
"is  Nolan  going  in  for  Nellie  Lincoln?  I  never  thought 


TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM.  323 

of  it  befoie,  but  the  whole  thing  would  arrange  itself  beauti- 
fully. She  is  Graham's  sister-in-law  ;  her  family  have  both  money 
arid  influence.  With  his  talents  all  he  wants  is  a  push  upward, 
and  if  he  does  not  get  the  push,  even  his  talent  will  find  it  up- 
hill work,  heavily  weighted  as  he  is  in  the  race  of  life." 

"  I  understood  Mr.  Nolan  was  going  to  California  to  seek 
his  fortune,"  observed  Katie. 

"  But  if  he  finds  the  fortune  ready  made  to  his  hand  at  home  ? 
Why  go  to  California  for  what  he  can  get  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed,  if  he  can  get  it,  of  which  I  am  not  at  all 
sure.  He  is  a  friend  of  the  Grahams,  and  has  a  passion  for 
music,  consequently  Mrs.  Graham  makes  him  do  escort  duty 
for  her  husband.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  anything  between 
Miss  Lincoln  and Sydney,  they  are  bowing." 

Mrs.  Graham,  sweeping  the  house  with  her  double-barrels, 
espied  the  cousins,  and  bowed.  Then  she  spoke  to  her  escort, 
and  Mr.  Nolan,  gla-ncing  across,  bowed  in  his  turn. 

"  What  a  very  lovely  face  ! "  said  Mrs.  Graham's  sister. 
"Your  description  has  not  done  Miss  Owenson  justice.  Does 
she  not  make  a  picture,  Mr.  Nolan,  as  she  sits  there,  with  all 
that  golden  hair  and  that  scarlet  drapery  ?  I  never  saw  a 
sweeter  face." 

"About  Miss  Owenson's  beauty  there  can  be  no  two  opin- 
ions," is  Mr.  Nolan's  answer. 

"  And  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful,"  says  enthusiastic  Mrs. 
Graham  : — "  it  is  a  heart  of  gold.  There  is  a  fascination  about 
her  that  won  my  heart  at  sight." 

"  Ah  !  but  Mrs.  Graham's  heart  is  so  very  easily  won,"  says 
Nolan. 

"And  so  very  often,"  says  Mrs.  Graham's  sister.  "  I  never 
pay  any  attention  to  Bella's  rhapsodies  ;  she  is  always  infatu- 
ated about  somebody  ;  but  really,  Miss  Owenson  justifies  a 
little  raving.  They  say  she  even  captured  the  invincible  Ernest 
Van  Cuyler." 

"So  it  is  said,"  Nolan  answers.  "Mr.  Van  Cuyler's  taste 
is  excellent." 

"  1  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  that,  Sydney?"  Katie  re- 
marks, as  they  go  home.  "  I  wonder  if  Lewis  Nolan  is  really 
epris  of  Nellie  Lincoln  ?  As  Major  Lloyd  said,  a  little  while 
ago,  it  is  just  the  start  in  life  he  wants.  He  could  not  do  better." 

"Let  us  hope  it  is  so,  then,"  Sydney  responds,  serenely 
"  Whate\er  good  fortune  befall  him,  I  am  qaite  sure  it  is  de 
served." 


j 24  TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY'S  ROOM. 

Katie  looks  at  her  earnestly  ;  she  is  shrewd,  but  she  i->  baf- 
fled. 

"  No,"  she  thinks,  "  she  does  not  care.  She  never  could 
look  like  that  if  she  did." 

An  influx  of  callers  next  day  detained  Sydney  in  the  drawing- 
room  until  quite  late.  It  was  half-past  four  before  she  could 
make  her  escape  and  change  her  dress  to  visit  Lucy.  She  war 
feverishly  eager  to  go — perhaps  there  she  would  hear  whethei 
there  were  any  truth  in  this  new  rumor  or  no- 
She  rode  to  her  destination,  but  it  was  nearly  six  before  she 
reached  the  house.  Lucy  would  be  waiting,  would  think  she 
did  not  mean  to  come,  and  she  hurried  in,  opening  the  house 
door  without  knocking.  She  looked  into  the  parlor — no  one 
there.  She  turned  and  ran  lightly  up  to  Lucy's  room.  In  the 
doorway  she  paused,  struck  by  the  picture  before  her.  Com- 
ing darkness  shadowed  the  little  chamber,  the  fire  in  the  grate 
had  burned  low  and  cast  fitful  gleams  over  everything.  Lucy  sat 
in  her  accustomed  place,  and  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair 
was  Lucy's  brother.  Neither  saw  her  from  their  position,  both 
were  absorbed,  and  it  was  her  own  name,  uttered  by  Lewis  No- 
lan, that  chained  her  to  the  spot. 

"Sydney  Owenson,"  he  was  saying,  in  an  intense  tone  of  con 
centrated  feeling.      "Yes,   Lucy,  you  have  guessed  the  truth 
It  is  because  I  dare  not  see  her.  that  I  avoid  her,  because  I  have 
no  trust  in  my  own  strength,  that  I  shun  her  presence.     If  I  met 
her  oftener  than  I  do,  I  would  have  neither  self-control  nor  power 
left.     There  are  some  temptations  a  man  can  face,  defy,  and 
trample  under  foot — there  are  others  from  which  flight  is  the 
only  salvation.     This  is  one.  " 

"I  have  suspected  this,"  Lucy  said.  "Who  could  see  her 
and  not  love  her,  so  lovely,  and  so  lovable,  so  true,  and  tender, 
and  sweet  ?  " 

"  And  so  far  above  us.  She  does  not  suspect  my  presump- 
tuous folly  ?" 

"  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not.  But,  Lewis,  is  it  such  presump- 
tuous folly  ?  I  know  she  is  very  wealthy,  and  of  a  very  proud 
family  ;  but  is  mere  wealth,  then,  such  an  insuperable  barrier? 
Why  not  tell  her  at  least  before  you  go?  It  is  only  fair  she 
should  have  a  voice  in  the  matter,  since  you  go  on  her  account. 
She  is  so  gentle,  so  good,  she  would  not  look  upon  it  as  presump- 
tuous folly  even  if  she  refused  you " 

"  Even  if  she  refused  me,"   Lewis  repeats  with  a  short  laugh 
"  Your  knowledge  of  the  world  is  limited,  Lucy,  but  even  you 


TWILIGHT  IN  LUCY  S  ROOM.  325 

can  hardly  doubt  that.  She  is  surrounded  by  suitors  of  a  beauty 
and  a  fortune  equal  to  her  own,  and  Van  Cuyler,  surrounded  by 
a  glamor  of  fame,  at  their  head.  Nothing  succeeds  like  success 
Van  Cuyler  will  win  her,  and  I — will  carry  the  crowning  mad- 
ness of  my  life  with  me  to  Sacramento,  and  in  new  scenes  anc4 
hard  work  live  it  down." 

The  spell  is  broken.  Sydney  makes  a  step  forward  and  stands 
still.  Lewis  Nolan  starts  around,  Lucy  utters  a  cry ;  Miss. 
Owenson,  pale  as  ashes,  trembling  violently,  comes  forward. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  says,  in  a  gasping  voice,  "  I  did 
not  mean  to  listen.  But  I  caught  my  name  and " 

She  comes  over  to  Lucy's  side  ;  and  Lucy  takes  the  two  hands, 
imploringly  held  out,  in  hers,  and  clasps  them  hard. 

"You  have  heard,"  Mr.  Nolan  asks,  quite  white  with  the 
shock  of  his  surprise. 

"All.     Oh!   forgive  me.    Indeed  I  did  not  mean  to  listen " 

"Forgive  you  /"  he  repeats,  mastering  himself  by  an  effort. 
"But  you  will  do  me  the  justice,  I  am  sure,  to  believe  I  would 
not  wilfully  have  pained  you  by  this  avowal." 

She  stands  silent,  but  her  color  is  coming  and  going,  her  breath 
quick,  her  eyes  intent  upon  the  carpet  pattern. 

Lewis  Nolan,  in  spite  of  the  poverty  of  his  antecedents,  is 
an  adept  in  the  polite  art  of  self-repression.  He  holds  himself 
well  in  hand  now. 

"  My  sister  has  been  trying  to  overthrow  my  resolution  of 
going  away  next  month,"  he  says,  but  the  deadly  pallor  of  his 
face  belies  the  calmness  of  voice  and  words,  "  and  in  an  uncon- 
trollable moment  1  have  told  her  the  truth.  That  I  have  learned 
to  love  you  is  at  once  my  loss  and  my  gain,  but  knowing  its 
hopelessness  I  never  meant  to  pain  you  by  the  knowledge.  Now 
that  by  chance  you  have  heard,  if  it  does  pain  you,  you  will  still 
forgive  me,  I  am  sure." 

She  stands  silent.      "  Forgive  him  !  "     He  only  asks  that. 

"  Have  1  indeed  offended  you  ?  "  he  says,  coming  nearer. 
"Shall  we  not  part  friends,  then,  after  all  ?  "' 

Part  ?  She  cannot  bear  that.  She  sinks  down  on  her  knees, 
and  lays  her  face  against  her  friend. 

"Tell  him,  Lucy," — clinging  to  Lucy's  hands — "you  know." 

And  Lucy  laughs  softly  at  the  little  comedy  of  errors,  and 
holds  her  close,  and  looks  triumphantly  at  her  brother. 

"  Mis.^  Owenson  !  "  he  cries — "  Sydney,  what  does  this  mean  ?" 

"  Oh,  stupid  Lewis  !  "Lucy  laughs  ;  "  how  blind  men  are  !  [t 
means  you  are  not  to  go  to  Sacramento — that  is  alL" 


326         "WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET* 
CHAPTER  IX. 

"MY    LIFE    HAS    FOUND    WHAT    SOME     HAVE    FOUND    SO    SWEET.' 

ilT  is  half-an-hour  later. 

Twilight,  pale  and  gray,  has  given  place  to  night : 
outside  the  frost  February  stars  sparkle,  and  a  new 
moon  glimmers  like  a  broken  silver  ring.  Inside,  the 
red  glow  of  the  fire  still  fitfully  lights  the  room,  and  lingers  on 
the  two  figures  standing  at  the  ivy-wreathed  window,  and  on 
Lucy  Nolan  lying  back,  her  eyes  upon  them,  her  hands  clasped, 
praying,  perhaps,  but  with  a  face  of  infinite  content.  For  the 
two  persons  most  interested,  they  just  stand  here  and  say  very 
little.  They  have  said  very  little  in  the  past  half-hour,  but 
Sydney  knows  that  the  desire  of  her  heart  is  hers.  And  Lewis 
Nolan  knows,  that  what  in  his  wildest  moments  of  hope  he 
never  dared  hope  for,  what  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  has  vainly  sought, 
is  his.  And  among  all  the  elect  of  Mammon,  whom  the  news 
will  probably  shock  and  amaze,  not  one  will  be  more  honestly 
surprised  than  is  at  this  moment  the  happy  man  himself.  He 
has  spoken  little  either  of  love,  or  rapture,  or  gratitude,  as  they 
linger  here.  Long  ago — he  is  thinking  of  it  as  he  stands  by  Syd- 
ney Owenson's  side  and  gazes  out  into  the  starry  darkness — 
the  strong  passions  nature  lias  given  him,  slipped  their  leash, 
and  the  memory  of  that  time  has  darkened  his  whole  after-life. 
The  power  of  self-repression,  his  life-study  since,  has  become 
second  nature  now,  and  he  stands  beside  the  beautiful  woman 
he  has  never  hoped  to  win,  and  keeps  those  turbulent  emotions 
of  joy  and  love  well  reined  in.  But  Sydney  is  content,  the  si- 
lence is  eloquent,  and  his  few  broken  words,  his  face,  his  eyes, 
have  told  her  all  she  asks  to  know. 

"  Sydney,"  he  says,  and  the  name  comes  as  naturally  to  his 
lips  as  though  they  had  spoken  it  for  years,  "  Mrs.  Macgregor 
will  never  consent." 

Sydney,  leaning  lightly  against  the  window  forme,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  that  broken,  little  yellow  moon,  smiles  dreamily,  and 
glances  shyly  up  in  her  tall  lover's  face. 

"  Will  she  not?  Very  likely.  But  it  doesn't  matter,  does 
it  ?  A  second  cousin  is — well,  a  second  cousin.  I  am  not 
sure  that  her  consent  or  approbation  signifies." 

He  smiles  at  the  easy  air  and  tone  of  utter  indifference. 


"WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET."         327 

"  But  I  am  afraid  it  does,  my  little  princess.  You  are  mak- 
ing a  very  shocking  mesalliance,  stooping  very  low  in  stooping 
to  me.  Do  you  not  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  before.  You  should  know  best,  however.  I  bow 
to  your  superior  wisdom,  Mr.  Nolan." 

"Ah  !  it  is  no  laughing  matter.  Mrs.  Macgregor's  house  is 
your  home  ;  she  can  make  it  very  unpleasant  for  you,  Sydney." 

Sydney  knows  that ;  Mrs.  Macgregor  has  made  it  exces- 
sively unpleasant  for  her  already. 

"And  you  have  no  other  home.     Do  you  know,  my  princess, 
that,  rich  as  you  are,  you  are  not  as  well  off  as  other  girls  after 
"all." 

"  I  am  to-night,"  she  answers,  softly,  and  with  a  glanre  that 
thrills  his  inmost  heart. 

"  If  I  only  had  a  home,"  he  says,  drawing  a  tense  breath  ; 
"  a  home  no  matter  how  inferior  to  what  you  have  been  used, 
to  offer  you,  I  would  take  you  from  them  at  once.  But  I  have 
not ;  I  can  offer  you  nothing." 

"  Except  yourself.  Oh  !  Lewis,  I  ask  nothing  in  all  the  world 
beside." 

They  clasp  hands,  and  again  there  is  silence  ;  one  of  those 
long,  delicious  blanks  that  are  better  than  words.  But  the 
cloud  still  lingers  on  the  young  man's  brow ;  her  face  is 
radiant. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,  Sydney,  that  you  will  be  set  down  as 
the  prey  of  a  fortune-hunter.  And  very  naturally,  too.  When 
a  pauper  aspires  to  a  princess  what  other  motives  can  actuate 
the  pauper  than  mercenary  ones  ?  " 

"  Lewis,"  says  Sydney,  and  the  way  in  which  she  utters  her 
lover's  name  for  the  first  time,  is  a  caress  in  itself,  "  don't  b^ 
disagreeable,  please.  What  does  it  matter  to  you  or  to  me 
what  all  the  world  says  ?  You  are  the  only  one  who  will  have 
the  impertinence  to  repeat  such  a  thing  in  my  presence." 

He  laughs,  then  sighs. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Mrs.  Macgregor  will  consider  it 
her  duty  and  her  privilege  to  put  things  before  you  very  plainly 
— oh,  very  plainly  indeed.  She  will  tell  you — what  is  true — 
that  I  am  beneath  you  in  every  way.  That  while  you  were 
born  to  the  purple,  I  was  born  a  newsboy  ;  that  while  you 
walked  in  silk  attire,  and  siller  had  to  spare,  I  swept  offices  and 
ran  errands  ;  that  while  you  reigned  '  queen,  lily,  and  rose  in 
one,'  in  a  fashionable  boarding-school,  I  was  educated  by  the 
bounty  of  her  brother ;  that  while  you  are  an  heiress,  and  of 


328        "  WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET." 

the  salt  of  the  earth,  T  am  an  out-at-elbows  Bohemian,  fighting 
my  way  inch  by  inch,  obscure,  unknown  to  fame,  with  a  mother 
and  sister  who  sew  for  a  livelihood.  And  all  Madison.  Avenue 
will  be  scandalized,  and  the  best  metropolitan  society  will  cry 
out  that  one  of  their  Order  has  put  them  to  shame.  Oh  !  little 
princess,  think  of  it  in  time.  It  is  not  yet  too  late  to  draw 
back,  to  repent  of  your  sin  against  society." 

"That  is  a  very  eloquent  outbust,  Mr.  Nolan,"  replies  Miss 
Owenson,  coolly;  "but,  as  a  rule,  eloquent  outbursts  art 
thrown  away  upon  me.  If  you  have  been  surprised  into  tell- 
ing rne  you — you  care  for  me  a  little,  and  want  to  get  out  of  it, 
please  put  it  in  plain  words.  If  you  tell  me  to  give  you  up.  I 
will  do  it  ;  if  not,  the  rest  of  the  world,  though  it  cried  out  to 
me  with  one  voice,  is  as  nothing." 

"  My  own  !  how  can  I  ever  prove  my  gratitude  for  this  ?  " 

"  By  never  saying  such  hateful  things  more.  All  New  York 
can  neither  make  nor  mar  my  happiness,  but  you  can  with  a 
word.  All  the  wealth  of  the  world,  if  I  possessed  it,  would  not 
weigh  a  feather-weight  against  my — love." 

She  speaks  that  last  word  in  a  shy  whisper,  as  one  not  yet 
used  to  its  sound.  For  two-and- twenty  years  she  has  gone  on 
her  way,  her  heart  her  own,  to  lay  it  down  humbly  here.  She  is 
sweetness,  and  nobleness,  and  generosity  itself,  but  even  yet  this 
difficult  Mr.  Nolan  is  not  at  rest,  for  he  knows  she  speaks  of 
wealth  and  position  with  the  grand  disdain  of  one  who  has  never 
known  the  lack  of  either. 

And  now  Mamma  Nolan  puts  in  her  best  black  Sunday  cap, 
and  calmly  announces  that  the  pancakes  are  ready,  and  will 
they  please  come  down  to  tea,  and  at  this  descent  from  sub- 
limated sentiment  to  flap-jacks,  all  laugh. 

"  Dear  me,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan,  "  what  are  you  laughing  at  and 
what  are  you  all  doing  in  the  dark  ?  Lewis,  I  should  think  you 
might  have  lit  the  lamp.  It  can't  be  pleasant  for  Miss  Owen- 
son  to  sit  in  darkness  like  an  owl." 

"  I  don't  mind  being  an  owl  for  a  little  while,  Mrs.  Nolan," 
responds  Sydney,  demurely.  "  Mr.  Nolan  and  I  have  been  dis- 
cussing society  and  its  creeds,  and  forgot  that  it  was  lamplight 
time." 

"Well,  come  down  to  supper,"  says  Mamma  Nolan,  inno- 
cently. "  Lewis,  be  very  careful  in  carrying  Lucy  on  the  stairs." 

For  it  is  one  of  Lucy's  best  days,  and  she  is  to  go  down- 
stairs. The  warning  is  not  needed,  no  woman  could  be  more 
tender  of  touch,  ikui  is  Lew  u>  wuh  his  frail  sister.  He  carriei 


••WHAT  SOME  NAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET."        329 

her  down  to  the  coxy  parlor,  where  fire  and  lamp  make  warmest 
light,  and  where  china  teacup;  glisten,  and  an  old  silver  tea- 
pot, the  one  relic  of  affluent  days,  sparkles,  and  where  there  are 
cakes,  and  coffee,  and  chickens,  and  ruby  jellies  and  snowy 
biead,  cold  ham  and  hot  pancakes,  all  tempting  and  nice.  Jt 
is  a  delightful  meal,  although  Sydney  finds  to  her  surprise  thi  t 
she  has  no  appetite,  and  her  effort  in  the  eating  way  is  only  an 
effort  to  please  her  hostess.  Lewis  is  rather  silent,  but  he  looks 
wonderfully  happy,  even  his  mother  notices,  and  her  artless 
remarks  on  the  subject  make  Miss  Owenson  blush.  There  is 
a  ring  in  one  of  these  pancakes,  Mrs.  Nolan  gravely  informs 
her  company,  whoever  gets  it  is  to  be  married  before  the  year 
ends  ;  and  this  blissful  symbol,  the  propitious  Fates  will,  shall 
fall  to  Miss  Owenson.  Thereupon  everybody  laughs,  and  the 
bright  hue  of  the  young  lady's  cheek  grows  brighter,  and  alto- 
gether it  is  a  feast  to  be  remembered,  a  symposium  of  the  gods. 
All  the  while  not  a  word  is  dropped  that  can  enlighten  the  mind 
of  mamma.  After  tea  there  is  music,  and  Lewis  is  the  musi- 
cian, all  his  heart  in  the  songs  he  sings,  in  the  rich  melody  his 
fingers  awake.  Sydney  sits  in  a  trance,  and  listens,  and  knows 
that  if  the  deep  happiness  she  feels  were  to  end  with  this  night, 
it  might  still  compensate  for  a  lifetime  of  sorrow.  Presently  it 
is  nine,  and  she  starts  up,  and  announces  that  it  is  time  to  go. 
She  kisses  Lucy  and  Lucy's  mother,  with  an  ardor  only  one  of 
them  understands ;  and  so,  with  Lewis  following,  tiits  away  and 
disappears. 

It  is  a  bright  winter  night,  cold  and  cleai,  a  night  that  photo- 
graphs itself  on  the  memory  of  both.  The  streets  are  lull  of 
people,  but  these  two  are  in  solitude— they  drift  on  slowly,  silent 
again,  and  neither  knowing  they  are  silent.  But,  presently,  the 
gentleman  breaks  the  spell. 

"  Sydney,"  he  says,  and  the  troubled  look  that  worries  Syd- 
ney is  back  in  his  eyes,  "  after  all,  this  is  a  leap  in  the  dark  for 
you.  What  do  you  know  of  me  in  reality  ?  " 

"  '  A  lightsome  eye.  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green, 
No  more  of  me  you  knew 

My  love, 
No  more  of  me  you  knew  ! '  " 

laughingly  says  Sydney,  out  of  her  radiantly  happy  heart. 
But  .Nolan  will  not  laugh,  he  looks  down  at  her  with  thosa 


33°        "WHAT  SOME  HAVE   FOUND    ?0  SWEET." 

gray,  dark  eyes  of  his,  Miss  Owenson  thinks  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  world,  and  reiterates  his  remark. 

"  You  know  nothing  of  me  or  my  life.  I  may  be  the  greatest 
villain  on  earth  for  all  that  you  can  tell." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Nolan,  that  is  your  little  mistake.  Partly 
from  Lucy,  partly  from  your  doting  mamma,  partly  from  Mrs. 
Graham,  partly  from  Uncle  Grif  —  all  your  devoted  slaves  —  I 
have  heard  the  whole  biography  of  Lewis  Nolan  since  he  was 
an  interesting  cherub  in  long  robes,  '  and  the  best  child,'  as 
Mamma  Nolan  emphatically  tells  me,  '  that  ever  lay  in  a  cradle. 
Could  the  most  exacting  inquirer  ask  more  ?" 

Mr.  Nolan  sees  fit  to  laugh  at  this,  but  to  Sydney's  disgust 
grows  grave  again  directly. 

"  I  may  have  secrets  in  my  life  that  even  these  good  friends 
do  not  know.  Which  of  us  are  known  to  our  nearest  and  dear- 
est as  we  are.  Sydney,  there  is  something  that  1  ought  to  tell 
you,  that  you  have  a  right  to  know,  and  —  that  may  part  us." 

"  No,  no  !  "  Sydney  cries  out,  holding  his  arm  tighter  ;  "  I 
do  not  believe  it.  Oh  !  Lewis,  you  have  not  —  you  have 
not  -  " 

"  A  hidden  wife  ?  "  supplements  Lewis  and  laughs  again. 
"  My  dear  child,  no.  No  woman  on  earth  has  the  faintest 
claim  upon  me  excepting  yourself." 

She  draws  a  long  breath  of  relief.  For  a  moment  the  absurd 
notion  that  he  has  put  into  words  has  actually  flashed  across  her 
brain. 

"  Nothing  else  can  matter  then  ;  if  you  love  me  and  no  one 
else  will  suffer.  For  I  could  not  take  even  you,  Lewis,  from 
one  who  had  the  slightest  prior  claim." 

"  No  one  has  a  prior  claim,  now.  Once  —  years  ago  —  I 
cared  for,  or  fancied  I  cared  for,  which  amounts  to  the  same 
thing,  a  girl  who  threw  me  over.  Think  of  that,  Miss  Owenson  ! 
You  honor  with  your  preference  a  jilted  man  !  " 

"  I  owe  her  ten  thousand  thanks  that  she  did  jilt  you.  But 
what  atrocious  taste  she  must  have  had  !  Is  that  your  awful 
secret,  Lewis  ?  " 

"  No,  Sydney  ;  I  wish  to  heaven  it  were.     In  my  past  life 


"  Lewis,  stop  !  "  she  cries  out  again,  in  affright.  "  I  don't 
want  to  know.  I  would  rather  not  know.  I  won't  know  ! 
No  matter  what  it  is  —  even  if  a  crime  —  it  has  been  repented  of 
and  atoned  for,  I  am  sure.  With  your  past  life  I  have  nothing 
to  do;  I  take  you  as  you  are,  asking  no  questions.  Only  be 


"WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET."        331 

faithful  and  true  to  me,  loving  me  with  your  whole  heart 
always,  for  with  less  I  will  not  be  content,  and  I  ask  no  more." 

"  No  more,"  he  repeats,  strong  repressed  passion  in  his  tone 
fire  in  his  eye.  "  Sydney!  you  mean  that  ?" 

"  I  mean  that.      I  ask  no  more." 

"  And  whatever  comes — if  in  the  future  what  I  would  tell  you 
now  comes  to  your  ears,  you  will  hold  me  blameless  ?  " 

"  I  hold  you  blameless,  so  that  you  are  still  all  mine." 

"Thank  Heaven  !" 

Did  he  say  it,  or  did  she  only  fancy  it?  He  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  great  relief,  and  looked  at  the  fair  and  noble  face  with 
eyes  of  almost  adoration. 

"  Sydney,  you  are  an  angel.  No,  you  are  what  is  infinitely 
better  for  me — a  perfect  woman." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly — "  a  very  faulty  and  erring 
woman,  wanting  a  clear  head  and  a  loving  heart  to  guide  her  ; 
wanting  some  one  braver  and  wiser  than  herself  to  help  her 
through  life." 

"  And  you  think  me  that  better  and  wiser  guide  ?  My  poor 
little  Sydney !  " 

There  was  an  unutterable  bitterness,  unutterable  remorse  and 
pain  in  his  voice.  Was  he  doing  wrong  in  taking  this  trusting 
girl  at  her  word,  in  all  the  innocence  of  ignorance,  and  making 
her  his  own,  the  secret  of  his  life  untold  ? 

"  I,  too,  have  my  confession  to  make,"  Sydney  says,  shyly. 
"  J,  too,  was  once  before  engaged.  Did  you  know  it,  Lewis  ?" 

"  No,"  he  answers,  "  I  did  not  know  it." 

And  the  knowledge  now  gives  him  a  curious  sort  of  jealous 
pain. 

"  Yes,  and  was  very  nearly  married,  but  he  died,  poor  fellow  ; 
was  killed  in  fact.  I  did  not  care  for  him  in — in  this  way.  We 
had  grown  up  together,  and  I  was  fond  of  him  as  a  sister.  My 
father  desired  me  to  be  his  wife;  I  was  only  seventeen,  and 
knew  no  other  will  than  my  dear  father's.  But  he  died. 

Sydney's  voice  trembles  even  now,  as  she  recalls  that  dread- 
ful time. 

"  Do  not  say  any  more,"  Nolan  says,  tenderly.  "  I  can  see 
it  pains  you  to  recall  it.  Let  the  dead  past  be  buried,  and  from 
this  night,  I  swear  my  whole  life,  my  every  thought  shall  be 
open  to  you.  If  perfect  love,  if  perfect  fidelity,  all  I  have  to 
otter,  can  in  any  way  repay  the  sacrifice  you  make  for  me,  then 
they  are  yours." 

"  I  wish  for  no  more,"  she  says,  and  gives  him  both  her  hands. 


332        "WHAT  SOME  HAVE  FOUND  SO  SWEET." 

i 

They  are  at  Mrs.  Macgregor's  door  ;  and,  as  she  speaks  the 
words,  and  he  clasps  in  his  those  two  extended  hands,  that  door 
suddenly  opens,  a  blaze  of  light  falls  upon  them,  and  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor,  awful  as  Macbeth,  majestic  and  stern,  in  full  evening 
dress,  stands  before  them. 

Tableau  ! 

Mr.  Nolan  takes  off  his  hat,  Sydney  blushes  vividly,  Mrs  Mac 
»gregor  stands  and  glares  petrified,  middle-aged  gorgon. 

"  Good- evening,  Mrs.  Macgregor,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  politely, 
and  by  no  means  crushed. 

His  voice  breaks  the  chilling  spell. 

"  Will  you  n.n  come  in,  Lewis?"  says  Miss Owenson, bravely 
"  No  ?  Well,  then,  good-night.  Tell  Lucy  I  shall  see  her  to- 
morrow." 

"Good-night,"  he  says,  biting  his  lip  to  repress  a  smile,  and 
runs  down  the  steps.  . 

She  lingers  a  moment  to  watch  him,  and  even  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor cannot  but  read  what  is  written  so  radiantly  in  Sydney's 
lovely  eyes. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  drawing-room,  Miss  Owenson?" 
she  says,  in  a  sharp  metallic  voice.  "  I  would  like  to  speak  to 
you  before  you  retire." 

"  Not  to-night,  Aunt  Helen,"  Miss  Owenson  replies,  smiling 
gayly,  at  the  same  time  turning  to  go  up-stairs. 

"  It  is  half-past  ten,"  says  Aunt  Helen,  in  an  acrid  tone,  and 
a  glance  of  the  darkest  displeasure. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  retorts  Sydney,  carelessly.  "  All  the  more  reason  I 
should  go  to  my  room  at  once.  Good-night,  Aunt  Helen." 

She  runs  up  lightly,  that  smile  still  on  her  lips.  There  will  be 
a  scene  to-morrow,  and  the  truth  must  come  out.  The  scene 
will  be  unpleasant,  and  Sydney  wants  nothing  unpleasant  to 
mar  the  memory  of  this  perfect  night.  She  does  what  all  young 
women  in  love  do,  in  books  and  out  of  them,  sits  at  the  window 
and  contemplates  the  moon. 

Sunday  was  dreary,  yesterday  was  dull,  to-day  had  been 
weary — to-night  all  that  earth  held  of  ecstasy  was  hers,  because 
a  sallow  young  man  with  gray  eyes  and  not  a  rap  in  his  pocke< 
tells  her  he  is  in  love  with  her.  She  looks  up  at  her  "  Sintram" 
• — the  moonlight  is  full  on  the  dark,  sad,  remorseful  face. 

"  I  have  seen  Lewis  to  night  with  just  that  look,"  she  thinks, 
with  a  sort  of  tender  trouble.  "What  can  his  secret  be  ?  But  it 
is  nothing  that  concerns  me — he  has  told  me  that;  and  I  s,haL 
make  his  life  so  happy  that  he  will  cease  to  resemble  poor, 


"7  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY."  333 

tempted,  melancholy  Sintram.  I  never  rejoiced  in  my  wealth 
before,  but  I  do  now  for  his  sake.  And  to  think — to  think  he 
would  have  gone  away  without  telling  me  if!  had  not  chanced 
to  overhear. 

"  My  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may, 

No  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. " 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  I  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY." 

YDNEY  goes  down  to  breakfast  next  morning  with  a 
face  from  which  even  the  prospect  of  what  is  to  come 
cannot  dim  the  sunshine.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Macgregor 
are  already  seated,  Katherine  immersed  in  the  morning 
paper,  and  Mrs.  Macgregor  majestic  behind  the  coffee-pot,  her 
Roman  nose  higher  in  the  air,  and  more  awfully  Roman  than 
Sydney  ever  remembers  to  have  seen  it.  But  Miss  Owenson 
is  the  daughter  of  a  fighting  sailor,  and  not  deficient  in  pluck. 
She  encounters  the  stony  stare  of  the  mistress  of  the  mansion 
with  a  frankly  pleasant  smile,  although  her  heart  beats  a  trifle 
faster  than  is  its  wont. 

"  Coffee  or  tea  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Macgregor  to  her  young  rela- 
tive, as  who  should  say,  "  Pistols  or  poison — take  your  choice  !  " 

"  Tea,  please.     Any  news  this  morning,  Katie  ?  " 

"  Nothing  especial,"  answers  Katie,  rather  coldly,  and  Syd- 
ney receives  her  tea  cup  and  stirs  her  tea. 

"Sydney!"  begins  Mrs.  Macgregor,  in  a  voice  that  makes 
every  nerve  in  Sydney's  body  wince,  "  it  is  my  duty,  unpleasant 
though  it  may  be,  to  speak  seriously  to  you  this  morning. 
Your  parents  arc  dead,  I  am  your  nearest  living  relative,  and 
you  are  a  member  of  my  family.  All  these  considerations  com- 
pel me  to  tell  you  that  1  was  shocked — yes,  Sydney,  honestly 
shocked — by  what  I  saw  last  night. 

"  Did  you  see  anything  very  awful,  Aunt  Helen  ?"  inquired 

isb  Owenson,  taking  some  dry  toast. 


334  •«/  SHALL  HAVE  H*D  MY  DAY." 

"  I  saw  what  I  did  not  expect  to  see — Reginald  Owenson' s 
daughter  lowering  herself " 

O  O 

"Lowering  herself?  I  do  not  think  I  quite  understand, 
Mrs.  Macgregor." 

Sydney's  voice  is  quite  calm,  her  blue  eyes  look  steadily 
across  the  table,  but  she  is  growing  very  pale. 

"  I  repeat  it — lowering  herself,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor.  "  la 
it  necessary  for  me  to  say  that  Lewis  Nolan  is  no  fit  compa- 
nion for  Captain  Owenson's  daughter?" 

"  Your  daughter  first  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Nolan.  I  take 
it  for  granted  she  would  not  introduce  me  to  any  one  unfit  to 
be  my  companion,  and  I  met  him  next  at  the  house  of  one  of  j 
your  most  intimate  friends.  He  is  a  gentleman,  is  he  not,  Aunt 
Helen  ;  and,  as  such,  a  fitting  companion  for  any  lady  in  the 
land  ?  "  j 

"  A  gentleman !  He  is  a  pauper,  a  dependant  on  my 
brother's  bounty ;  a  young  man  very  well  in  his  way  no  doubt,1 
but  low — low  both  in  bringing  up  and  connections  ;  at  no  time 
the  proper  associate  of  a  young  lady  in  your  position,  and 
notoriously  unfit  to  be  her  solitary  escort  home  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night!  "  j 

Miss  Owenson  has  thrown  back  her  head,  her  face  is  pale, 
her  eyes  are  shining  as  only  blue  eyes  shine  in  intense,  re- 
pressed anger. 

"  I  have  long  intended,"  Mrs.  Macgregor's  metallic  voice  goes 
en,  "to  speak  to  you  of  the  impropriety  of  your  frequent  visits 
to  this  young  man's  house;  but,  knowing  you  were  very  charitable 
to  the  poor,  I  forced  myself  to  believe  your  visits  there  were  as 
your  ordinary  visits  to  the  homes  of  your  pensioners.  But  last 
night  I  heard  you — even  now  I  can  scarcely  credit  my  eairs — I 
heard  you  call  that  young  man  Lewis,  saw  you  stand  with  both 
hands  clasped  in  his  !  I  know  that  Mis.  Graham,  in  her  foolish 
way,  has  taken  this  young  man  up  ;  that  her  equally  foolish  hus- 
band has  taken  him  into  partnership.  All  the  same,  he  is  none 
the  less  your  inferior,  and  beneath  your  notice  ;  and  when  you 
permit  him  the  freedom  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes  last  night, 
you — it  is  a  strong  word,  but  I  must  use  it — you  degrade  your- 
self, Sydney." 

"  Mother  !  "  cries  Katherine,  throwing  down  her  paper. 

Miss  Owenson  rises  to  her  feet,  and  stands  tall,  and  stately, 
and  pale  as  death. 

"It  is  a  word  that  has  never  been  used  to  me  before  ;  it  is 
one  that  shall  never  be  used  to  me  again  in  this  house.  All 


«/  SffAtL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY."  335 

Kfadison  Avenue,  all  the  friends  you  have,  Mrs.  Macgregor, 
might  have  been  standing  as  you  were  last  night,  looking  on, 
and  I  would  have  held  Lewis  Nolan's  hand  all'  the  closer,  and 
stood  by  his  side,  prouder  of  my  right  to  stand  there  than  of  any 
one  else  on  earth.  Kpr  I  have  the  right,"  Sydney  says,  a  flush 
of  exultant  joy,  triumph,  and  love  lighting  her  face,  "it  is  my 
great  happiness  this  morning  to  tell  you,  the  right  to  stand  by 
his  side  my  whole  life  long ! " 

"  Sydney  !  "  Mrs.  Macgregor  exclaims.  She  rises  also,  blanched 
with  horror.  "You  do  not  mean — you  cannot  mean " 

"That  I  am  to  be  Lewis  Nolan's  wife?  Yes,  Aunt  Helen, 
whenever  he  sees  fit  to  claim  me." 

Aunt  Helen  drops  back  in  to  her  seat  with  a  thud.  Katherine 
sits  and  gazes  at  Sydney  with  glittering  cold  black  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  in  any  way  cause  you  annoyance,  Aunt 
Helen,"  Sydney  goes  on  in  a  gentler  tone.  She  is  so  infinitely 
happy  that  she  can  afford  charity  to  others.  "  You  are  my  near- 
esf  relative,  as  you  say,  and  I  am  at  present  under  your  care.  It 
will  afford  me  pleasure  to  please  you  in  any  way  in  my  power, 
to  yield  to  you  in  all  proper  matters,  but  here  you  must  not  inter- 
fere. 1  am  Mr.  Nolan's  plighted  wife;  you  are  free  to  announce 
it  to  every  acquaintance  you  have,  and  as  soon  as  you  please. 
Any  affront  offered  to  him  I  shall  resent,  as  I  would  never  think 
of  resenting  an  affront  offered  to  myself." 

And  then  Miss  Owenson,  still  stately  and  uplifted,  bows  her 
head  and  goes.  Mrs.  Macgregor  sits  up  paralyzed ;  Miss 
Macgregor  holds  her  Herald  up  before  her  face  and  stares  at  it, 
and"  never  sees  a  word. 

"  Lesvis  Nolan  ! "  the  mother  faintly  gasps,  at  last.  "  Sydney 
Owenson  to  marry  Lewis  Nolan  !  Katherine,  are  you  deaf,  that 
you  sit  there  and  read  ?  Did  you  hear  what  she  said?" 

"  1  heard,  mother,"  Katherine  answers,  icily.  "  I  am  not 
surprised.  She  is  worthy  of  him — I  can  praise  Sydney  no  more 
highly  than  that.  " 

"  Katherine  ! " 

"And,  mother,  as  Miss  Owenson  is  her  own  mistress,  and 
you  have  not  a  shadow  of  right  over  her,  and  as  she  pays  you 
trebly  for  her  board,  and  is  rather  a  lucrative  item  in  our  house- 
hold, 1  would  strongly  advise  you  to  be  civil.  An  heiress  need 
never  want  friends ;  doors  will  be  open  to  her  if  you  make  your 
house  too  hut  to  hold  her.  She  may  even  marry  Mr.  Nolan 
put  of  hand,  and  have  a  home  of  her  own.  /  would  in  her  place  !  " 

VV'it.h   w^ith  Katherine  leaves  the  room,   and  her  mother 


32*  "/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY." 

is  alone,  to  chew  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies.  Very  bit 
ter  she  finds  them.  To  refuse  Dick,  to  refuse  Van  Cuyler — • 
all  for  this  Lewis  Nolan.  What  does  she  see  in  him  ?  Aunt 
Helen  thinks,  helplessly.  If  he  were  a  very  handsome  man  she 
could  understand  a  romantic  girl's  fancy  and  folly  ;  but  he  is 
not — he  is  dark  and  sallow,  and  thin,  with  prominent  features, 
and  nothing  attractive  about  him  except  a  voice  for  singing, 
a  gift  that  rather  detracts  from  a  man's  manliness,  in  Mrs.  Mac- 
gregor's  eyes.  He  may  be  clever  in  his  way,  but  if  Sydney 
wanted  cleverness,  why  did  she  not  take  Ernest  Van  Cuyler,  a 
gentleman  and  a  scholar,  and  a  man  who  wrote  books,  surrounded, 
too,  by  the  aroma  of  conquest  and  fame.  Why  had  she  fallen 
in  love  with  this  young  man,  Nolan  ?  What  does  she  see  in 
him  ?  The  case  is  hopeless,  the  conundrum  unsolvable.  In  a 
stunned  way  she  rises  and  gives  it  up  at  last. 

Katharine  runs  up  to  Sydney's  room  and  raps  at  the   door. 

"  Let  me  in,  Sydney,  please, "  she  says  ;  "  it  is  only  1." 

Sydney  obeys.  She  has  been  crying,  Katherine  can  see — the 
usual  ending  of  feminine  heroics ;  and  Katie  takes  her  in  her 
arms  impulsively  and  kisses  her. 

"  Sydney,  you  are  the  best  and  pluckiest  girl  in  the  world, 
and  I  wish  you  joy.  I  think  I  half  expected  this  from  the  first." 

Sydney  leans  her  arm  on  the  mantel  and  her  face  on  her  arm, 
tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes  again. 

"  Don't  mind  mamma,"  goes  on  Katherine.  "Your  conduct 
is  sheer  madness  in  her  eyes,  nothing  less.  And  who  can  won- 
der? Refusing  Ernest  Van  Cuyler  last  week,  and  accepting 
Lewis  Nolan  this  !  How  pleased  Mrs.  Graham  will  be  ;  she  set 
her  heart  on  this  long  ago,  and  \vas  nearly  in  despair  when  she 
heard  of  his  departure.  Of  course  the  Sacramento  exile  is  at  an 
end  now,"  says  Katie,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  satirical  smile. 

"  I  hope  so.  I  don't  know,"  Sydney  answers,  in  a  stifled 
voice. 

There  is  silence,  and  Katherine  stands  and  looks  at  her,  half 
curiously,  half  admiringly. 

"And  so  my  beautiful  Cousin  Sydney,  captor  so  long,  is  cap- 
tive at  last !  Shall  you  be  married  after  Lent,  Sydney  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"/would!"  says  Katherine,  energetically.  Why  should  you 
wait?  you  will  be  ever  so  much  happier  in  a  home  of  your  own, 
and  where  is  the  object  in  waiting  half  a-dozen  years  while  he 
struggles  upward.  One  of  you  has  money,  and  I  know  in  your 
primitive  creed  it  doesn't  matter  which,  though  it  would  to  most 


«'/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAI."  337 

people.  But  then  most  people  would  not  throw  themselves 
s.way — don't  be  angry,  Syd — it  is  throwing  yourself  away  in  one 
sense." 

"  Be  kind  enough  not  to  say  so,  Katie.  If  I  were  told  a 
kingdom  and  a  crown  were  awaiting  me,  they  could  not  give  me 
a  tithe  of  the  happiness  the  knowledge  that  he  loves  me  does." 

"  It  must  be  nice  to  be  unworldly  and  fresh-hearted  like 
that,"  says  Katie,  with  a  half  sigh  ;  "but  then  it  is  a  luxury  you 
can  afford.  In  your  place,  even  I  might  fall  in  love  with  and 
marry  a  poor  man." 

Ill  news  travels  apace — perhaps  that  was  how  Mrs.  Macgregor 
accounted  for  the  rapidity  with  which  the  stunning  fact  of  Miss 
Owenson's  engagement  extraordinary  transpired.  To  Lewis 
Nolan  !  Who  was  this  Lewis  Nolan  ?  cried  out  the  uninitiated ; 
and  the  answer  came  crushingly  : 

"  A  young  fellow  without  a  penny  ;  his  mother  an  Irishwoman 
who  sews  for  a  living — son  educated  for  the  bar  through  the  char- 
ity of  Mr.  Griffith  Glenn  and  John  Graham,  Esquire — man  who 
plays  the  organ  in  a  church  for  a  salary,  and  sings  at  evening 
parties." 

Can  it  be  wondered  at,  that  the  best  society  of  this  democratic 
city  held  up  its  hands  aghast,  shocked,  outraged,  indignant  ? 
One  of  the  richest  heiresses  in  New  York,  the  last  of  a  fine  old 
English  family,  a  young  lady  who  had  refused  Ernest  Vander- 
velde  Van  Cuyler  only  a  few  weeks  ago  !  There  must  be  some- 
thing intrinsically  wrong,  mentally  or  morally,  with  this  hand- 
some and  high-spirited  Miss  Owenson — insanity  latent  probably 
in  the  family. 

Of  course  very  little  of  all  this  came  to  Miss  Owenson's  ears, 
but  of  course  also,  she  could  hardly  fail  to  read  the  wonder,  the 
pity,  the  curiosity  in  the  faces  she  met ;  and,  what  was  much 
worse,  Aunt  Helen,  afraid  of  open  warfare,  had  frozen  into 
strong  rigidity.  Not  Lot's  wife  had  ever  been  stiffer,  harder, 
colder,  than  was  displeased  Aunt  Helen  Macgregor.  She  had 
always  disliked  this  fortune-hunter,  this  adventurer,  this  Bohe- 
mian young  Nolan.  As  a  boy,  the  money  brother  Grif  should 
have  spent  on  Dick  had  been  wasted  on  this  pauper  lad.  As  a 
boy,  at  the  same  school,  this  audacious  mendicant  had  carried 
ott  prize  after  prize  over  Dick's  devoted  head.  And  now  this 
final  and  never- to-be-forgiven  sin  of  winning  Sydney  Owenson  by 
his  artifices,  and  for  her  fortune  only,  had  been  committed.  He 
had  been  taken — Dick  left.  No  wonder  Mrs.  Macgregor*s 
thoughts  were  gall  and  bitterness ;  no  wonder  that  severe  Ro 

'$ 


338  "/  SHALL   HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY." 

man  profile  grew  awful  in  Miss  Owenson's  sight ;  no  wonder 
every  -vord  that  fell  from  her  lips  were  as  so  many  icicles. 

Mrs.  Graham,  on  the  contrary,  was  transported,  and  embraced 
Sydney  over  and  again  in  an  ecstasy  of  gushing,match-making  joy. 

"  You  were  made  for  each  other,  my  darling  !  I  saw  that 
from  the  first.  1  should  never  have  forgiven  you,  Sydney,  if 
you  had  let  him  go." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  Sydney's  one  friend.  At  her  house  she  and 
Lewis  sometimes  met,  but  not  often,  for  Mr.  Nolan  was,  as 
usual,  very  much  occupied,  and  seemed  to  have  received  a  new 
impetus  to  work.  He  had  even  for  a  brief  time  no  intention  of 
giving  up  his  California  project — he  could  attain  the  desired  end 
so  much  more  quickly  there.  Sydney  had  looked  reproachfully 
and  imploring,  and  Mrs.  Graham  had  scolded  him  roundly  for 
such  "  a  tempting  of  Providence  "  ;  Lucy  and  his  mother  had 
pleaded,  and  finally,  and  not  without  some  reluctance,  it  was 
abandoned.  He  was*  working  hard,  as  has  been  said,  with 
thoughts  and  hopes  now  tnat  made  the  dry-as-dust  office  work 
sweet,  and  at  infrequent  intervals  he  and  his  affianced  met 
chiefly  at  Mrs.  Graham's.  Mrs.  Macgregor's  doors  were  closed 
against  him.  On  Sydney's  visits  to  his  home  he  was  almost 
invariably  absent,  and  his  partner's  house  was  the  only  one  he 
visited.  When  they  met  in  company  here,  it  was  good  to  see 
Sydney  take  her  place  at  his  side,  as  one  having  the  right,  jeal- 
ous lest  any  should  fancy  for  a  moment  that  she  was  either  afraid 
or  ashamed  of  her  choice.  The  reserve  that  would  have  been 
hers  had  her  lover  been  what  the  world  called  her  equal,  and 
that  would  have  forbidden  any  public  pronounced  attention,  she 
resolutely  banished.  The  world  should  respect,  if  she  could 
make  it,  this  man  whom  she  delighted  to  honor. 

But  it  was  a  false  position,  and  the  girl,  delicate  and  sensi- 
tive, felt  it. 

As  the  spring  wore  on  and  Easter  drew  near,  her  life  at  the 
Macgregors'  began  to  grow  intolerable.  Katie  was  kind,  but 
unsympathetic.  Katie's  mother  was  simply  unendurable.  All  her 
life  Sydney  had  been  the  beloved  and  petted  of  the  household — • 
,unkindness,  coldness,  covert  sneers,  icy  glances,  stabbed  her 
like  daggers.  Without  creating  infinite  gossip  and  scandal,  she 
could  not  quit  Mrs.  Macgregor's  house,  and  gossip  and  scandal 
were  the  nightmares  of  her  life.  Her  wealth  would  have  opened 
scores  of  doors,  but  not  one  home.  She  was  happy,  infinitely 
happy  in  her  heart's  choice,  but  that  did  nqt  prevent  very  many 
bitter  tears  being  shed  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room.  Shf 


"7  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY"  339 

grew  pale  and  nervous,  lost  flesh  and  color  rapidly  in  this 
ordeal,  and  a  troubled,  startled  look  was  growing  habitual  to 
the  lovely  serene  eyes.  Mrs.  Graham  saw  with  ever-growing 
indignation  the  change  in  her  young  friend,  and  at  last  her  feel- 
ings grew  too  many  for  her,  and  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
spoke. 

"  I  never  thought,  Lewis,  whatever  your  faults — and  their 
name  is  legion,  very  likely — that  you  were  altogether  heartless  !  " 
cries  Mrs.  Graham  with  compressed  lips  and  flashing  eyes. 

"  My  dear  madam, "  expostulates  Mr.  Nolan,  looking  up 
laughingly  from  a  pile  of  legal  cap,  for  the  lady  had  gone  all  the 
way  to  the  Wall  street  office  to  rate  the  delinquent,  "  what  have 
I  done  now  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  not  doing,  rather  ?  Have  you  no  eyes  ?  Car/- 
not you  see  that  she  is  growing  thin  as  a  shadow  and  white  as  a 
spirit  in  that  house,  under  the  tyranny  of  that  old  gorgon  ?  But, 
of  course,  you  cannot.  Men  are  proverbially  as  blind  as  bats. 
Other  people  can  see  how  wretchedly  the  poor  child  is  looking  ; 
but  you,  who  ought  to  be  the  first,  don't  or  won't  see  anything 
at  all.  Go  to  !"  cries  Mrs.  Graham,  who  laid  down  an  Eliza- 
bethan novel  just  before  coming  out.  "  I  have  no  patience 
with  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  Sydney  ? "  Lewis  says,  in  a  troubled  tone. 
"  My  dear  Mrs.  Graham,  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  seen  the 
change  in  her  ;  I  know  they  make  her  suffer  for  my  sake,  and  I 
— I  am  powerless  to  help  her  or  take  her  from  them." 

His  dark  eyes  glow,  his  lips  set  sternly.  Never  has  he  felt 
the  bitterness  of  being  a  poor  man  as  he  feels  it  now.  He 
would  give  his  life  to  save  her  pain,  and  he  must  stand  by  and 
see  her  suffer,  powerless  to  help  her. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  "  retorts  Mrs.  Graham,  with  a  scornful 
little  snort.  "  You  can  marry  her,  I  suppose.  If  /  were  a 
man,"  cries  this  stout  and  excitable  matron,  "  and  a  lovely  girl 
were  ridiculous  enough  to  love  me,  and  that  girl  had  money 
enough  for  a  dozen,  do  you  think  I  would  leave  her  to  be  made 
miserable  by  a  cantankerous  old  cat  like  Helen  Macgregor? 
No,  sir,  i  would  marry  her  out  of  hand,  and  give  her  a  home  of 
her  own,  and  a  husband  to  take  care  of  her,  and  never  stop  to 
think  of  it  twice." 

"  But  as  I  am  so  utterly  poor,  what  would  the  w arid  say? 
Would  it  be  honorable " 

"A  fig  for  the  world — that  for  your  honor.  What  is  all  the 
world  to  you  compared  with  Sydney's  health  and  happiness? 


34°  *•/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY" 

Honorable — I  like  that.  Is  it  more  honorable  for  you  to  grub 
along  in  this  office  for  the  next  ten  years,  making  a  competence 
while  you  let  her  life  be  tortured  out  of  her,  than  to  many  her 
and  make  her  happy  ?  I  admire  such  honor  !  Good  morning 
to  you,  Mr.  Lewis  Nolan.  Unless  1  hear  something  more 
manly  of  you  soon,  you  will  kindly  consider  our  acquaintance  at 
an  end." 

In  spite  of  himself,  Nolan  laughs — Mrs.  Graham's  excitement 
and  indignation  are  so  real.  He  escorts  her  to  her  carriage. 

" '  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  poor  even  in  thanks  ;  but  I  thank 
you,'  "  he  says,  "  for  your  more  than  friendly  interest  in  Sydney 
and  me." 

"  Sho^v  your  gratitude  then  by  acting  as  you  should.  Home, 
Thomas."  retorts  Mrs.  Graham,  snappishly. 

He  returns  to  his  work,  but  he  cannot  work.  It  has  been 
his  dream  to  make  a  name  and  a  home  for  his  bride,  not  such  a 
home  as  she  has  been  accustomed  to  just  at  first,  but  still  one 
of  his  making.  But  what  if  Mrs.  Graham  is  right  ?  Is  Sydney 
unhappy  among  the  Macgregors,  and  for  his  sake  ?  If  so,  is  it 
not  his  duty  to  take  her  from  them,  to  pocket  his  pride  and 
ambition,  defy  the  world's  scoff,  and  make  her  his  wife  at  once  ? 

He  tries  in  vain  to  concentrate  his  mind  on  the  brief  before 
him.  He  throws  it  aside,  puts  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  goes 
home.  It  is  one  of  Sydney's  days,  he  has  a  chance  of  finding 
her  there  yet.  He  has  noticed,  with  keenest  pain,  how  fragile 
and  changed  she  has  grown  of  late.  He  can  infer  pretty  well 
what  kind  of  enemy  Mrs.  Macgregor  can  be. 

Sydney  is  still  there  ;  is  alone  in  the  little  parlor,  playing  for 
Lucy  in  the  chamber  above.  She  starts  up,  a  flush  of  surprise 
and  delight  making  her  face  bright  at  sight  of  him. 

"  You,  Lewis,  and  before  five  !  How  could  you  tear  your- 
self away  from  that  enchanting  office  and  those  fascinating  big 
books  bound  in  calf?" 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic,  Sydney,"  says  Mr.  Nolan  ;  "  sarcasm  is 
not  the  strong  point  of  your  sex.  I  tore  myself  away  because 
I  fancied  you  might  be  still  here,  and  I  was  hungry  to  see  you." 

The  bright  color  stays  in  her  face  under  his  grave  eyes  and 
at  his  words,  but  in  spite  of  it  he  can  see  the  change  in  her. 
The  hands  that  lie  loosely  in  her  lap  are  thin  and  transparent 
He  takes  one  and  slips  off  without  an  effort  the  simple  engage- 
ment ring  he  has  given  her. 

"  Three  weeks  ago,  Sydney,"  he  says,  that  troubled  look  iu 
fys  eyes,  "  this  ring  fitted  so  tightly  that  it  was  an  effort  to  gel 


"J  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY."  341 

it    ?n.       Now   see    it   drop   off;      My  princess,    what   is   the 
matter?" 

The  rosy  light  leaves  her  face  ;  she  looks  away  from  him,  out 
into  the  grimy  street,  upon  which  the  red  flush  of  an  early  April 
sunset  lies. 

"  You  are  suffering  for  me,"  he  goes  on  ;  "  Mrs.  Macgregor 
is  making  your  life  miserable.  You  are  not  happy  there,  Syd- 
ney, I  can  see  that.  I  have  seen  it  from  the  first.  And  I — it 
will  be  so  many  years  before  I  have  a  fitting  home  to  offer  you." 

She  does  not  look  at  him,  she  watches  those  ruby  gleams  of 
sunlight  on  the  dusty  street,  her  color  coming  and  going.  Her 
heart  is  full  of  words,  but  she  is  a  woman,  and  her  lips  may  not 
speak  them.  He  has  dropped  her  hand,  and  is  walking  up  and 
down,  his  brows  bent.  He  stops  abruptly  before  her  in  his 
walk,  takes  both  hands,  and  gazes  down  at  her,  a  resolute  look 
in  the  shady  darkness  of  his  eyes. 

"  Sydney,"  he  says,  "  without  a  home  ;  with  neither  fame  nor 
fortune  to  offer  you,  will  you  marry  me — at  once  ?  " 

She  lays  her  face  down  on  the  hands  that  clasp  hers,  almost 
with  a  sob. 

"  My  only  home  can  be  where  you  are,"  she  answers  ;  "  thai 
is  no  home.  I  am — oh  !  so  miserable  there,  Lewis  ;  I  can 
never  have  any  home  except  as  your  wife." 

So  it  is  settled. 

******* 

Now  that  the  plunge  is  taken,  Mr.  Nolan  shows  himself  a 
man  of  energy  and  decision.  The  marriage  shall  take  place 
at  once — this  very  month.  Miss  Owenson  pleads  for  a  little 
longer  respite. 

"  Not  quite  this  month,  Lewis — say  next.  I  can  never  be 
ready." 

"  Ready  ?  What  do  you  call  being  ready  ?  You  don't  mean 
to  go  in  for  an  expensive  trousseau,  I  hope.  At  our  wedding 
such  a  thing  would  be  a  mockery." 

Sydney  knows  that,  and  hesitates.  Then  Mrs.  Graham  goes 
over  to  the  enemy,  and  her  side  kicks  the  beam. 

"  Married  in  May  !  Don't  you  know  May  is  the  unluckiest 
month  in  the  year  for  marriages  ?  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

"  They  do  nearly  all  their  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage,  in 
May,  in  London,"  says  Miss  Owenson. 

"  They  may  do  in  London  as  they  please  ;  you  shall  do  in 
New  York  as  New  Yorkers  do." 

"  Does  nobody  marry  in  New  York  in  May,  Mrs.  Graham  ?  " 


342  "/  SHALL  HAVE  HAD  MY  DAY" 

"  Don't  ask  ridiculous  questions,  Miss  Owenson.  Be  gaided 
by  the  superior  wisdom  of  your  elders.  May  is  an  unlucky  marry- 
ing month.  Let  us  call  it  the  last  week  of  April  and  be  happy." 

Sydney  laughs,  blushes,  glances  shyly  at  Mr.  Nolan,  and 
yields  the  point ;  but  in  her  eyes  no  month  will  be  unlucky  that 
will  make  her  Lewis's  wife.  As  this  is  the  close  of  the  first 
week,  there  is  very  little  time  for  preparation.  Sydney  screws 
her  courage  to  the  sticking  place,  and  announces  the  fact  at 
home,  and  Mrs.  Macgregor  turns  yellow  with  passion. 

"1  cannot  prevent  this  madness  of  yours,  Sydney,''  she  says, 
in  a  voice  of  concentrated  rage  ;  "  but  in  no  way  will  I  coun- 
tenance it.  No  one  from  my  house  shall  be  present.  Across 
this  threshold  that  man  shall  never  come." 

"  That  is  understood,"  said  Sydney  Owenson,  very  pale,  but 
quite  calm.  "  What  I  wish  to  know  is,  if  I  have  your  permis- 
sion to  remain  here  until  my  wedding  day  ?  I  would  prefer  it 
myself.  An  open  family  feud  is  detestable.  If  not,  I  will  go 
to  Mrs.  Graham's. 

"  And  add  insult  to  injury.     That  I  could  never  forgive." 

"  Then  I  remain.  For  that,  at  least,  Aunt  Helen,  I  thank 
you." 

But  Aunt  Helen's  answer  is  a  look  of  exceeding  bitterness 
Katherine   says  little;  but,  two  days  after,    she  discovers  sfit 
owes  a  long-standing  visit  to  Philadelphia,  and  flits  away  to  pay 
her  debt. 

And  now  the  days  fly  :  one  by  one  they  dawn,  glide  by,  and 
are  over,  and  all  at  once  the  wedding-day  is  here. 

A  lovely  day — sunny,  serene,  cloudless.  In  Mrs.  Graham's 
carriage,  by  Mrs.  Graham's  side,  the  bride  goes  to  church.  She 
wears  a  pale  gray  travelling  suit,  with  a  trifle  of  white  lace 
and  blue  ribbon  at  the  throat,  a  gray  hat  and  gray  gloves.  Not 
a  flower,  not  a  jewel ;  a  shop  girl  would  have  thought  it  plain. 
She  is  quite  white  with  emotion,  but  in  her  heart  there  is  not  a 
doubt,  not  a  tremor.  That  other  wedding  day,  with  all  its  bri- 
dal bells  and  bravery,  its  bright  array  of  bridesmaids,  comes  back 
for  a  moment,  but  she  banishes  the  uncanny  resemblance.  In- 
deed, Bertie  Vaughan  is  but  the  palest  shadow  of  memory  now, 
and  has  been  ever  since  she  met  Lewis.  To-day  there  are 
neither  bells  nor  bridesmaids,  but  in  the  church  the  bridegroom 
stands  looking  as  he  always  looks  in  Sydney's  eyes  "  a  man  of 
men." 

Uncle  Grif  awaits  her  at  the  door,  and  on  his  arm  she  goes 
up  the  aisle.  Little  Monseiur  Von  Ette  is  dancing  about,  wild 


"HER  HEART'S  DESIRE."  343 

with  repressed  excitement,  and  there,  grave  and  gray,  is  Mr. 
Graham,  and  there  tearful  and  trembling  Mrs.  Nolan.  And 
now  she  kneels,  and  he  is  beside  her,  and  the  marriage  is  begun. 
Uncle  Grif  gives  her  away,  blushing  all  over  his  bald  head  ;  Mrs. 
Graham  sniffs  audibly  behind  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  in 
Mrs.  Nolan's  eyes  there  are  quiet  tears  ;  but  Sydney  lifts  two 
eyes  of  heavenly  radiance  to  the  bridegroom's  face  as  he  slips 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  knows  that  the  desire  of  her  heart  is 
hers. 

They  are  married.  For  the  last  time  the  door  of  the  Mac- 
gregor  house  has  closed  upon  her  as  home  ;  it  is  to  Mrs.  Nolan's 
they  go  to  breakfast.  And  there  Lucy  awaits  them,  and  into 
Lucy's  arms  the  bride  goes,  and  cries  for  a  moment  hysteri- 
cally. 

"  My  own  dear  sister,"  Lucy  says,  "  Heaven  bless  and  keep 
you  both." 

So  she  has  been  married,  and  the  outrage  upon  society  con- 
summated. With  neither  bridesmaids  nor  bridal  gifts,  nor  re- 
ception, nor  veil,  nor  wreath,  nor  trailing  whiteness  of  wedding- 
robe,  nor  anything  proper. 

But  it  is  doubtful  if  ever  more  blissful  bride  stood  by  her 
wedded  lover's  side  than  Sydney  Nolan. 


CHAPTER  XL 
"  HER  HEART'S  DESIRE." 

JjHE  nine  days'  wonder  was  at  an  end  ;  the  Wonderful 
I  Wedding  had  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Nolan  had  been  wandering  about  for  fully  six 
weeks,  and  were  shortly  expected  home. 
Home  !  Where  ultimately  that  was  to  be,  Lewis  Nolan  had 
not  the  faintest  idea.  His  intention  was  to  take  his  wife  to  a 
hotel  upon  their  return,  and  once  he  had  asked  her,  if  among 
them  she  had  any  preference,  and  Sydney  had  blushed  in  a 
guilty  way  and  evaded  an  answer.  The  man's  pride  to  a  cer- 
tain degree  had  been  excoriated  by  his  marriage,  and  he  shrank 
with,  perhaps,  a  morbid  sensitiveness  from  renewing  this  sub- 
ject. They  had  gone  to  Washington  first,  then  westward ;  it 
die  not  matter  where  just  at  present,  you  know  ;  they  did  not 


344  "  HER  HEART'S  DESIRE.  » 

tread  the  earth,  but  a  sublimated,  etherealized,  rapturous  world 
of  their  own.  Mrs.  Nolan  had  desired  to  go  to  Europe,  and  show 
Mr.  Nolan  Italy  and  the  Rhine,  Paris,  and  Napoleon  the  Third  ; 
but  Mr.  Nolan  had  incisively  declined.  A  six  weeks'  holiday 
he  might  afford  ;  a  six  months'  scamper  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Did  Mrs.  Nolan  expect  to  henpeck  him  at  this  early  stage 
of  proceedings  ?  He  objected  to  being  trotted  about  Europe 
at  present ;  his  wife  might  consider  herself  fortunate  that  he 
had  humored  her  by  leaving  Wall  Street,  even  for  a  day.  And 
Sydney  had  laughed,  and  given  up  the  point.  It  was  delightful  to 
obey  Lewis,  to  feel  he  had  the  right  to  command,  that  she  be- 
longed to  him,  to  him  alone,  wholly  and  for  all  time  ! 

But  the  six  weeks  ended,  and  they  were  coming  back. 
Coming  back — where  ?  Once  more  Nolan  broached  the 
hotel  question — once  more  Sydney  slipped  out  of  it  with 
a  caressing  :  "  Wait  until  we  get  to  New  York,  Lewis ;  I'll  de- 
cide then."  All  through  the  honeymoon  a  conspiracy  had  been 
in  progress  ;  mysterious  letters  passed  between  Mrs.  Graham 
and  the  bride,  which  the  bridegroom  was  not  permitted  to  see, 
and  which  wreathed  Mrs.  Nolan's  face  with  dimples. 

One  lovely  June  morning,  a  steamer  floated  up  to  her  pier, 
and  the  happy  pair  were  back  in  the  dear  familiar  din  and  dust 
of  Gotham.  A  very  elegant  private  c£\rriage,  with  a  pair  of 
handsome  black  horses  and  a  coachr  An,  blacker  than  the 
horses,  was  drawn  up  to  the  pier.  Within  sat  Mrs.  Graham 
and  Uncle  Grif,  and  handshakings  and  kissing  ensued,  and  in- 
quiries all  round,  and  the  young  wife  was  informed  she  was 
looking  uncommonly  well,  ana  then  the  quartet  were  flashing 
away  up  town.  Sydney  sat,  and  talked,  and  looked  nervous 
and  cast  wistful  sidelong  glances  at  her  husband.  Mr.  Nolan, 
uncomfortably  unconscious  of  his  destiny,  but  with  a  feeling 
that  all  the  rest  knew,  took  out  a  damp  morning  paper,  and 
with  a  true  "  married-man  manner "  calmly  began  to  read. 
Presently  they  were  very  far  up  town  in  quiet  and  dignified 
streets  of  brown-stone  stateliness,  and  before  one  of  these  "  pa- 
latial "  residences,  semi-detached,  with  shrubbery  in  front  and 
an  air  of  elegant  rusticity,  the  carriage  stopped. 

"  Lewis,"  Sydney  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisper,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  "  this  is — home." 

His  eyes  answered  her  ;  he  said  nothing,  only  sprang  out  and 
assisted  the  ladies,  Uncle  Grif  ambled  after,  and  the  carriage 
was  driven  round  to  certain  stables  in  the  rear. 

They  entered  an  imposing  hall,  hung  with  paintings,  rich  in 


"HER  HEART'S  DESIRE."  345 

bronzes  and  statuary,  and  into  a  dining-room,  perfect  in  every 
dark  and  handsome  appointment,  where  a  table  stood  with  a 
silver  and  china  breakfast  equipage,  and  where  Mamma  Nolan 
came  forward  to  meet  and  welcome  her  son  and  daughter. 
And  still  in  silence  Lewis  saw  it  all. 

"  How  is  Lucy?  "  Sydney  asked. 

"  Better  than  usual,  and  Sydney-sick,  as  perhaps  her  letters 
have  told  you.  Will  you  go  up-stairs  and  take  off  your  things  ? 
You  must  be  famished  after  your  journev.  I  will  show  you  the 
way." 

"Come,  Lewis,"  Sydney  said,  shyly,  and  Lewis  followed  up 
the  long  easy  stairway,  to  another  hall  both  perfect  in  every 
minute  detail  of  costly  upholstery.  Mamma  Nolan  threw 
open  a  door  and  displayed  a  vista  of  three  rooms  en  suite, 
quite  superb  in  coloring  and  appointment. 

"  I  hope  they  will  please  you,"  said  Mamma  Nolan.  "  Mrs. 
Graham  followed  your  instructions  to  the  letter.  Now  make 
haste,  like  good  children,  and  come  down  to  breakfast." 

She  bustled  away,  and  husband  and  wife  were  alone.  Syd- 
ney stood,  that  fluttering  color  of  hers  deepening  and  fading, 
then  she  turned  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  Lewis,"  she  said  again,  "  this  is  home." 

He  held  her  still  in  silence,  gazing  about  the  rich  and  beau- 
tiful rooms. 

"  You — you  are  not  angry  that  I  did  not  consult  you  ?  "  she 
said,  pleadingly.  "  I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  It  is  so  long 
since  I  have  had  a  home,  a  real  home,  that  the  thought  of  this 
has  been  sweet  to  me.  You  do  not  mind,  Lewis  ?  Why  don't 
you  speak  ?  " 

"  U'hat  can  I  say,  Sydney  ?  I  feel  crushed.  Fortune  seems 
to  shower  fairy  gifts  upon  me.  I  receive  all  and  give  nothing. 
There  are  no  words  that  I  can  speak.  Some  day — if  ever — when 
I  am  a  successful  man  I  will  tell  you  what  I  feel  j  just  now  I 
cannot.  I  can  only  say — I  love  my  wife." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Nolan  could  have  said  in  his  most  eloquent 

moments  nothing  his  wife  would  have  liked  so  well.     She  laughed 

_as  she  threw  off  hat  and  jacket,  and  began  to  smooth  her  hair. 

"It  is  a  lovely  house,  is  it  not  ?  Mr.  Graham  and  Uncle 
Grif,  Mrs.  Graham  and  your  mother  were  all  in  the  plot.  You 
never  can  tell,  Lewis,"  said  Mrs.  Nolan,  plaintively,  "  wh  at  I 
have  suffered  the  past  six  weeks  keeping  this  secret." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,  my  love." 

"  And  it  is  the  last,  the  very  last  I  ever  mean  to  keep  from 
'5* 


346  TEDDY. 

you  for  a  moment.  Now  let  us  go  down  to  breakfast,  for  I  am 
most  excruciatingly  hungry." 

Sydney's  new  life  was  fairly  begun — her  unclouded  new  life. 
Lewis  made  his  daily  pilgrimage  to  Wall  Street  early  in  the 
morning,  and  madam  generally  drove  down  for  him  early  in  the 
evening.  Lucy  was  well,  that  is,  much  better  than  usual. 
Katie  Macgregor  was  back,  had  roped  in  the  erratic  old  Von- 
derdonck  at  last,  and  was  to  lasso  him  for  good  at  St.  Alban's, 
in  early  autumn.  Mrs.  Macgregor,  now  that  the  evil  was  inevi- 
table, smiled  upon  her  fair,  erring  relative  once  more,  even 
upon  that  fair  relative's  pauper  husband.  Finally,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Nolan  gave  an  "At  Home,"  preparatory  to  Mrs.  Nolan's  flit- 
ting away  before  the  July  heats,  and  a  large  assembly  were  bid- 
den and  came.  It  was  an  affair  to  be  remembered — the  ro- 
mantic interest  attaching  to  the  marriage  ;  the  lovely,  blissful 
face  of  the  young  wife,  her  exquisite  toilet  and  diamonds;  the 
stately  bearing  and  air  noble  of  the  young  husband,  carrying 
himself  as  one  to  the  manner  born  ;  the  magnificence  of  the 
house  itself — all  combined  to  make  this  reception  quite  out  of 
common — a  brief  glimpse  of  romance. 

And  so  Sydney  has  her  heart's  desire,  the  husband  she  loves, 
ftnd  a  home  that  is  an  ideal  home  in  its  beauty  and  perfectness  ; 
and  is  that  world's  wonder,  rare  as  the  blossom  of  the  century 
plant — a  perfectly  happy  woman. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

TEDDY. 

JHE  first  days  of  July  send  Mrs.  Nolan  to  Newport  for 
the  blazing  weeks,  and  Mrs.  Graham  and  Katherinc 
Macgregor  go  also.  Mr.  Nolan  escorts  them,  stays  a 
day,  and  returns  to  town.  He  has  grown  used  to 
being  stared  at  as  the  hero  of  a  love  match,  a  sort  of  modern 
Claude  Melnotte,  a  lucky  young  barrister,  who  has  successfully 
carried  off,  over  the  heads  of  all  competitors,  the  beautiful  heir- 
ess of  fabulous  thousands.  Great  things  are  predicted  of  this 
fortunate  young  man  by  the  knowing  ones. 

"A  young  fellow  of  prodigious  talent,   sir,  great  oratorical 
powers,  keen  forensi"  abilities.     With  his  own  cleverness,  indu* 


TEDDY.  347 

try  and  ambition,  combined  with  the  great  beauty  ami  wealth 
of  his  wife,  and  the  social  power  she  will  wield,  any  career  is 
open  to  Nolan — ANY,  sir — bar,  bench,  or  senate.  The  young 
man  will  be  a  judge  at  thirty,  sir — a  fellow  of  infinite  capabili- 
ties, and  amazingly  shrewd  for  a  youngster.  Lovely  creature, 
the  wife." 

It  seemed  as  if  Nolan  himself,  who  said  very  little  about  it, 
had  notions  that  coincided.  Certainly  he  did  not  spare  him- 
self; he  worked  without  stint  or  measure.  Sydney  entreated 
him,  when  he  made  his  flying  visits,  to  remain  a  week ;  he 
kissed  her,  laughed  at  her,  and  returned  inexorably.  She  was 
growing  jealous  of  those  grimy  big  tomes,  of  his  office  and  pro- 
fession, that  enchained  him.  How  much  stronger  hold  they 
seemed  to  have  upon  him  than  she  had.  Ambitious  he  had  al- 
ways been,  and  his  affection  for  his  wife  was  but  an  added  spur. 
She  must  be  proud  as  well  as  fond  of  the  penniless  husband  she 
had  chosen,  and  he  grudged  every  lost  hour  as  one  that  kept 
success  an  hour  longer  off. 

Every  Saturday  evening  he  went  to  Newport  and  spent  Sun- 
day with  his  wife.  As  a  matter  of  course,  therefore,  Sunday 
became  the  one  day  of  the  week  to  this  infatuated  young 
woman.  Still  the  intervals,  with  their  water  parties,  driving 
parties,  horseback  rides,  long  walks,  evening  hops,  surf  bathing, 
band,  the  well-dressed,  well-mannered  crowd  of  men  and 
women,  all  the  light,  insouciant,  sunny,  sensuous  life  of  a  fash- 
ionable watering-place,  could  hardly  drag  to  any  very  weari- 
some extent.  Sydney  grew  plump  and  rosy  as  Hebe's  self,  and 
seemed  to  have  found  a  fairy  fountain  of  perennial  beauty  and 
youth.  Mr.  Nolan,  on  the  other  hand,  as  August  blazed  to  a 
close,  began  to  look  a  trifle  jaded  and  worn ;  hot  weather  and 
hard  work  were  beginning  to  tell  upon  him,  and  Sydney,  quick 
to  note  the  slightest  shade  on  that  one  face  of  all  faces,  grew 
alarmed,  and  despite  the  expostulations  of  fiiends  and  ad- 
mirers, flitted  back  to  the  city  to  see  that  Lewis  did  not  go  off 
with  congestion  of  the  brain  from  over-study. 

"  What  could  that  beautiful  creature  have  seen  in  that  fellow?" 
queried  the  Newport  gentlemen,  pulling  their  pet  mustaches 
meditatively.  "  A  clothes-wearing  fellow,  with  nothing  to  say 
for  himself,  nothing  in  the  way  of  looks  to  speak  of,  besides  a 
tolerable  figure  and  a  pair  of  ovjrgrown  eyes.  What's  there 
about  him  that  she  should  have  thrown  away  herself  and  her 
ducats  upon  him,  and  after  four  months  of  matrimony,  adore 
.he  ground  he  walks  on  ?  " 


348  TEDDY. 

Syilniy  was  looking  forward  to  a  very  gay  winter.  She  knew 
lhat  ;;he  could  further  her  husband's  views  by  her  own  gracious 
hospitality.  In  the  case  of  almost  every  successful  man  there 
is  always  a  woman  who  does  for  him  what  he  cannot  do  for  him 
self,  a.  good  genius  in  petticoats  without  whom  success  could 
never  have  been  achieved.  She  may  be  his  wife  or  she  may 
not,  the  world  may  know  of  her  or  it  may  not,  but  she  clings  to 
him  and  loves  him,  and  her  slender  hand  either  pulls  or  pushes 
him  to  heights  he  else  would  never  attain.  So  Sydney  purposed 
taking  society  by  storm  this  winter,  giving  a  series  of  brilliant 
entertainments,  and  making  her  husband's  face  as  familiar  to 
all  influential  New  York  as  the  statue  in  Union  Square.  But 
woman  proposes — the  Infinite  Justice  that  disposes  had  decreed 
very  differently  from  Mrs.  Lewis  Nolan. 

September  was  here,  and  September  in  New  York  is  a  per- 
fect month,  a  gem  in  the  necklace  of  the  year. 

Coming  home  from  a  shopping  expedition  one  afternoon, 
Mrs.  Nolan  was  informed  by  the  smart  black  boy  in  buttons 
who  answered  the  bell,  that  a  caller  awaited  her  in  the  draw- 
ing room. 

"  Been  waitin'  more'n  half  an-hour,  missis."  says  Jim  ;  "  said 
jest  to  tell  you,  please,  as  how  a  very  old  friend  wished  to  see 
you.  Didn't  give  me  no  name,  nor  card,  nor  nuffin,  missis. 
Got  a  little  boy  wid  her,  missis." 

Sydney  descended  to  the  drawing-room.  A  lady,  dressed 
in  black,  sat  on  a  sofa,  her  back  to  the  door,  turning  a  photo- 
graph book,  and  for  some  seconds  did  not  turn.  A  child  of 
four,  a  handsome  little  fellow,  in  velvet  blouse  and  breeches, 
golden  ringlets  and  a  pair  of  shapely  juvenile  legs,  lopked  up 
at  her  with  a  friendly  smile. 

Very  much  puzzled,  Sydney  drew  near ;  the  child  was  a 
stranger  to  her — who  was  the  lady  ? 

The  lady  arose  at  the  moment,  turned,  and  faced  her.  There 
was  a  gasp,  a  cry,  a  rush,  and  Sydney  was  clasping  in  her  arms 
Cyrilla  Hendrick  ! 

"Cyrilla!  Cyrilla!  oh,  darling  Cy!" 

"  My  dearest  Sydney  !  " 

Yes,  it  was  Cyrilla' s  voice — Cyrilla' s  dear,  familiar  face  upon 
which  she  was  raining  kisses.  The  old  fascination  of  her  school- 
girl days  was  not  outgrown  by  later  loves.  As  the  world  held 
but  one  perfect  man,  that  man  her  husband,  so  it  held  but  one 
Cyrilla  Hendrick,  friend  dearest  and  best  beloved. 

"  My  pet,  my  pet !  "  cries  Mrs.  Nolan,  in  a  rapture,  "  what  a 


TEDDY.  349 

suqirire  this  is  .'  Oh  !  Cy — darling — how  I  have  longed  for  you, 
worried  about  you,  all  this  time  !  Where  have  you  been  ?  Why 
did  you  not  find  me  out  before  ?  Let  me  look  at  you  and 
make  sure  it  is  my  very  own  Cyrilla." 

She  holds  her  off  and  gazes.  Cyrilla  smiles.  She  is  changed, 
but  not  greatly.  There  is  the  creamy,  colorless  beauty,  the 
youthful  roundness,  the  perfect  contour  of  other  days,  the  old 
haughty  poise  of  the  head,  the  great  dusk,  sombre  eyes,  the 
high  bred,  distinguished  air  Sydney  remembers  so  well. 

"  Well  ?  "  Cyrilla  says,  coolly. 

"  You  have  changed,  dear,  and  yet,  where  the  change  is  I 
cannot  make  out.  Oh  !  my  Cy — my  own  dear  friend,  I  can- 
not tell  you,  indeed  I  cannot  tell  you,  how  happy  it  makes  me 
to  see  you  again." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  is  Cyrilla's  answer,  "  else  be  very  certain, 
Sydney,  I  had  never  come.  It  is  my  turn  to  look  at  you.  You 
have  changed  certainly.  How  handsome  you  have  grown  1 
You  were  always  pretty,  but  not  like  this." 

"  Happiness  is  an  excellent  cosmetic,"  laughs  Mrs.  Nolan, 
"  and  1  am  very  happy,  Cyrilla." 

"  You  look  it.  And  so  you  are  '  wooed  and  married  and  a' 
—what  a  fortunate  man  is  Mr.  Nolan  !  I  hope  he  appreciates  it." 

"  Fully,  I  assure  you." 

All  this  time  they  have  been  standing  clasping  each  other's 
hands,  gazing  in  each  other's  faces.  Now  the  youthful  per- 
sonage in  the  velvet  blouse,  who  has  been  standing  unnoticed 
regarding  this  scene,  pulls  Cyrilla's  dress  and  pipes  in  : 

"  Mamma — mamma,  who  is  the  pretty  lady  ?" 

"  Mamma ! "  Sydney  starts  as  if  she  was  shot,  and  looks 
from  one  to  the  other.  She  has  absolutely  forgotten  the 
child  in  the  sudden  surprise  of  the  meeting.  Cyrilla's  son, 
surely,  for  Cyrilla's  black,  solemn  eyes  shine  in  the  baby  face, 
although  the  small,  fair  features  and  flaxen  curls  are  very  unlike 
her  friend's  dark  skin  and  jetty  hair. 

"This  lady  is  Auntie  Sydney — you  know  Auntie  Sydney?" 
The  small  head  nods  intelligently. 

"  Now  go  and  tell  Auntie  Sydney  who  you  are,  my  pet." 

"  The  young  gentleman  advances,  very  much  at  his  ease, 
looks  up  into  Mrs.  Nolan's  face,  and  gives  his  biography. 

"  I  is  Teddy  Croo." 

"  Oh,  Cy  !  "  Sydney  says,  and  snatches  Teddy  Croo  in  her 
arms  and  takes  away  his  breath  with  kisses,  "  I  never  dreanvxi 
of  this." 


35°  TEDDY. 

She  is  paler  than  Cyrilla  with  emotion,  as  she  bends  over 
Cyrilla' s  son,  all  the  maternal  heart  in  a  wife's  bosom  aroused. 

"  You  knew  that  I  was  married,  did  you  not  ?  "  Cyrilla  says, 
quietly.  "  You  remember  my  visit  to  you  at  Mrs.  Macgregor's 
five  years  ago  last  May  ?  That  was  my  bridal  tour,  Sydney. 
I  had  been  married  two  weeks  then." 

She  stops  a  moment.  She  has  great  self-command,  always 
had,  but  even  her  self-command  is  shaken  a  little  as  she  thinks 
of  then  and  now. 

"  I  married  Fred  Carew  at  Mrs.  Colonel  Delamere's  house, 
Sydney,  and  under  pretext  of  visiting  you,  came  to  New  York 
with  him.  It  was  all  of  a  piece — duplicity  on  my  part  from  first 
to  last,  duplicity  that  worked  its  own  retribution.  The  very 
day  I  left  you  I  met  Miss  Jones  in  a  Broadway  omnibus,  and 
she  went  all  the  way  to  Montreal  to  tell  my  aunt.  The  deceit, 
the  plotting,  the  falsehoods,  from  beginning  to  end,  were  mine- 
mine  alone.  Fred  urged  me  to  tell  the  truth — he  only  yielded 
to  please  me.  I  wanted  him  and  I  wanted  Miss  Dormer's  money, 
and  in  trying  to  secure  both,  lost  both.  It  was  simple  justice — • 
I  acknowledge  that." 

"  I  wrote  to  Mr.  McKelpin,"  faltered  Sydney.  "  There  were 
such  extraordinary  rumors  afloat.  Some  said  you  had  been 
married  to  Mr.  Carew  ;  others,  that  although  you  were  with  him 
in  New  York,  you  were  not  his " 

"His  wife — go  on,  Sydney.  That  I  should  lose  reputation  as 
well  as  husband  and  fortune,  I  also  richly  deserved ;  for  across 
my  aunt's  dying  bed,  with  Fred's  eyes  upon  me,I  denied  our 
marriage." 

"  I  never  believed  that  story,"  says  Sydney.  "  I  mean,  that 
you  were  not  married.  If  you  were  with  Lieutenant  Carew  in 
this  city,  I  knew  as  surely  as  I  lived,  it  was  as  his  wife ! " 

"  My  loyal  Sydney  !  Yes,  I  never  feared  your  hearing,  I  never 
doubted  your  fidelity.  Whatever  has  befallen  me,  I  have  fully 
merited.  You  know  how  poor  Aunt  Phil  hated  Fred — well,  she 
was  dying,  and  she  asked  me  to  swear  that  I  was  not  his  wife. 
I  see  that  scene  at  this  moment,  Sydney,  as  vividly  as  I  saw  it 
then.  I  live  it  over  in  dreams.  I  awake  with  a  start  a  dozen 
times  a  day,  and  come  back  from  that  dingy,  stifling  room,  with 
Aunt  Dormer,  a  ghastly  sight  in  the  bed,  Mrs.  Fogarty  and  Miss 
Jones  watching  with  deadly  hatred  for  my  downfall,  and  Fred 
standing  with  folded  arms  waiting  for  me  to  speak.  I  have 
never  seen  him  since.  Sydney — no,  not  once — never  even  have 
heard  of  him  from  that  dreadful  day." 


TEDDY.  351 

For  a  moment — only  a  moment — she  falters  and  breaks 
down,  but  she  neither  sobs  nor  sheds  a  tear.  It  is  Sydney's  eyes 
that  are  full. 

"  I  lost  all,  Sydney,"  Cyrilla  goes  on.  "  Aunt  Dormer  died 
and  left  all  she  possessed,  all  I  had  slaved  and  sinned  for,  to 
Donald  McKelpin.  I  fell  down  in  a  fit  of  some  kind  on  Miss 
Dormer's  bed.  I  remember  that,  and  I  know  that  it  was  Fred 
who  lifted  and  carried  me  to  my  room.  I  heard  him  whisper 
'  good-by,'  and  go.  After  that  all  is  hazy — my  head  was  not 
clear,  it  had  the  queerest  feeling,  as  if  it  were  grown  enor- 
mously large  and  as  light  as  a  cork. 

"  The  strain  had  been  too  much  for  me — the  illness  was  com- 
ing on  even  then  that  nearly  ended  my  life.  I  had  but  one 
idea — to  get  away  from  that  house,  from  Montreal,  before  Mc- 
Kelpin came.  I  did  it.  I  got  on  the  train,  found  a  seat  some- 
how, and  seemed  to  be  going  spinning  through  empty  air.  I  can 
recall  no  more  for  many  weeks.  I  was  in  a  Boston  hospital 
when  life  came  back,  so  weak  that  I  could  neither  lift  my  hand, 
nor  speak  aloud,  nor  care  whether  I  lived  or  died.  They  were 
very  kind  to  me.  One  of  the  physicians  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
me,  it  seemed,  and  gave  me  devoted  care  and  skill.  Gradually 
I  grew  stronger,  and  from  Dr.  Digby  I  discovered  where  I  was 
and  how  I  had  come  there. 

"Some  time  in  the  evening,  it  appeared,  the  conductor  go- 
ing his  rounds,  had  found  me  lying  in  my  seat  to  all  appearance 
dead  or  dying.  There  was  great  excitement  and  alarm,  and 
the  moment  we  reached  Boston  I  was  brought  here.  I  had 
been  ill,  very  ill — so  ill  that  at  one  time  Dr.  Digby  had  thought 
death  inevitable.  My  friends  in  Montreal  had  advertised  for 
me,  he  said.  I  stared  at  this — one  of  them,  he  went  on,  had  even 
come  here  to  see  me.  His  name  was  McKelpin,  and  he  had 
left  a  note  for  me,  and  the  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars  to  my 
credit  in  the  bank.  Donald  McKelpin,  whom  I  had  always 
even  laughed  at,  whom  I  had  shamefully  led  on  and  deceived, 
was  an  honorable  gentleman  after  all,  it  seemed.  I  cried  over 
his  note,  Sydney — I,  who  never  cry,  but  I  was  weak  and  broken 
down,  and  kindness  so  undeserved  moved  me.  It  was  a  cold 
and  civil  note ;  he  made  no  allusion  to  my  marriage  or  my 
treachery  ;  he  simply  said  that  his  late  lamented  friend,  Miss 
Phillis  Dormer,  having  left  him  he:  whole  property,  he  consid- 
ered it  his  duty  to  see  that  the  services  I  had  rendered  his  es- 
teemed friend  in  her  last  illness  were  not  unrequited,  ll 
was  what  I  had  no  right  to  expect  from  him,  of  all  men,  but 


352  TEDDY. 

I  felt  that  it  was  no  more  than  I  had  rightfully  earned  from 
her.  Twice  that  amount  would  not  have  repaid  me  for  the  life 
I  led  at  Miss  Dormer's,  so  I  answered  Mr.  McKelpin,  ac- 
cepted the  money  humbly  and  gratefully,  and  then  turned  my 
thoughts  to  the  future.  I  was  not  to  die,  it  seemed,  and  lonely 
and  desolate  as  life  would  be,  I  clung  to  it  as  we  all  cling. 
I  had  five  thousand  dollars,  and  youth,  and  just  then  that  seemed 
affluence.  Long  before  Dr.  Digby  thought  me  fit  to  leave  his 
care,  I  bade  him  good-bye  and  came  here  to  New  York,  found  a 
boarding  house,  and  grew  strong  at  my  leisure. 

"  1  am  not  going  to  tell  you,  Sydney,  how  desolate  and  heart- 
sick, remorseful  and  despairing  1  was  at  times.  If  you  had  been 
here  I  would  have  come  to  you ;  you  were  just  the  only  person  in 
the  world  whose  pity  I  could  have  borne.  I  had  not  one  friend  in 
the  whole  great  city,  and  of  all  loneliness  the  loneliness  of  one 
utterly  alone  in  a  great  city  is  the  most  utter.  To  see  thousands 
pass  you  by  and  not  one  familiar  face,  to  feel  a  lost,  unknown 
creature  among  all  who  come  and  go,  to  know  that  you  might 
drop  down  and  die  in  their  midst  and  not  one  to  give  you  a  sec- 
ond thought.  Oh  !  you  cannot  realize  this.  It  was  the  most 
absolutely  wretched  time  of  my  life ;  but  in  spite  of  that  I  grew 
strong  and  hearty,  and  the  old  question  rose  up — what  should  I 
do?  Five  thousand  dollars  would  not  last  forever.  I  must 
earn  my  own  living. 

"  My  first  thought,  one  that  I  found  hard  to  give  up,  was  of 
the  stage.  If  I  had  capabilities  for  anything,  if  I  had  a  vocation 
in  life,  that  was  it.  I  was  an  excellent  elocutionist  already, 
thanks  to  long  training  and  natural  taste  ;  I  had  a  tall  and  %ood 
figure,  a  passable  face,  a  head  oC  good  hair  below  my  waist, 
and  two  black  eyes.  I  took  stock  of  myself  as  any  manager 
might  appraise  me ;  I  had  a  flexible  voice ;  I  could  dance,  sing, 
speak  French,  and  would  never  know  the  meaning  of  stage 
fright.  1  had  money  enough  to  live  upon  until  the  initiative  train- 
ing was  complete.  I  felt  certain  of  success  if  I  tried,  and  still — • 
and  still  I  hesitated.  I  had  outraged  my  husband,  driven  him 
from  me,  and  now  that  I  had  lost  him,  I  did  what  I  never  had  done 
before  in  my  life — stopped  to  think  whether  or  no  he  would  have 
approved  of  my  impulses.  Easy  as  you  may  have  thought  him, 
free  from  prejudices,  he  yet  had  very  strong  pride  and  prejudices 
about  certain  things.  One  of  these  was  the  stage,  for  me.  He 
had  vetoed  it  ever  since  I  had  known  him.  'It's  no  place  for 
you,  Beauty,  he  would  say,  '  with  your  gunpowder  temper,  and 
peppery  pride,  and  overbearing  little  ways  generally.  You 


TEDDY.  353 

would  come  to  grief  in  the  green-room  in  a  week.  Besides,  the 
theatre's  well  enough  for  those  that  must  go  in  for  that  sort  of 
thing;  somi  of  the  women  are  trumps,  take  'em  anyhow  yon 
like  ;  but  it's  not  the  place  for  you,  Beauty ;  I  never  want  to 
see  your  face  behind  the  footlights." 

"  And  I  knew  Freddy  felt  much  more  strongly  and  deeply  on 
this  subject  than  he  could  express.  And  I,  who  had  never  ac- 
knowledged any  will  but  my  own  heretofore,  now  that  he  and  I 
were  parted  forever,  obeyed  his  wishes,  gave  up  my  one  am- 
bition, and  resolved  that  my  life  for  the  future  should  be  one  of 
expiation  for  the  past.  I  had  found  a  quiet  home  about  this 
time  with  a  widow,  '  poor  but  honest,'  as  they  say,  who  took  no 
other  boarders ;  and  here,  one  January  day,  my  baby  arrived. 
Life  all  at  once  grew  bright  again  ;  1  had  something  to  love, 
live  for,  and  work  for.  After  all  the  tears  and  weeping,  joy- 
fulness  had  been  poured  in  at  last. 

"  Four  months  after  baby's  birth,  I  set  myself  resolutely  to 
look  for  labor.  I  had  lived  so  economically  that  I  had  nearly  four 
thousand  dollars  still,  but  I  was  growing  niggardly  for  baby's  sake, 
and  must  keep  that  for  him.  I  advertised  in  the  daily  papers,  and 
answered  advertisements  without  number,  ladies  wanted  com- 
panions— families  wanted  governesses — there  seemed  no  end 
of  situations ;  but  when  one  applied  there  was  always  something 
that  rendered  it  impossible  to  accept.  I  advertised  for  pupils 
in  music  and  French  ;  but  the  market  was  drugged,  it  seemed, 
with  French  and  music  teachers.  Four  months  had  passed, 
and  I  seemed  as  far  off  a  livelihood  as  ever,  but  baby  thrived 
and  grew,  and  I  was  happy.  Sydney,  as  happy  as  I  could  be  in 
this  world  again.  At  last,  it  was  by  the  merest  chance 
I  saw  an  advertisement  of  a  young  ladies'  seminary  in  Chicago 
that  stood  in  need  of  a  French,  and  music,  and  singing  gover- 
ness. With  credentials  from  the  clergyman  who  had  baptized 
Ted.  and  the  doctors,  1  went  to  Chicago,  suited  the  vacancy, 
and  got  it.  I  had  lost  my  husband,  I  told  the  gentlemanly 
principal  and  his  wife,  and  they  looked  sympathetic,  and  did 
not  press  me  with  questions.  Of  course  I  could  not  keep  my 
baby  in  the  school,  and  the  thought  of  parting  with  him  almost 
made  me  resign  the  position.  But  this  would  have  been  folly, 
and  I  was  worn  out  trying  so  long,  so  the  sacrifice  had  to  be 
made.  After  some  trouble  I  found  a  young  married  woman,  with 
a  seven-months  boy  of  her  own,  willing  to  take  charge  of  Teddy 
on  reasonable  terms,  and  to  her  care  J  was  obliged  to  resign  him. 
One  inducement  was,  that  she  kept  a  cow,  and  Teddy  could 


354  TEDDY. 

have  plenty  of  fresh  milk.  And  she  has  been  the  best  and  most 
tendor  of  nurses  to  my  boy ;  he  has  been  with  Mrs.  Martin 
ever  since." 

Cyrilla  paused,  as  if  her  story  had  come  to  an  end,  and  look- 
ed with  tender  eyes  at  her  little  son. 

"  Who  is  he  like,  Sydney  ?  "  she  wistfully  asked. 

"Like  Fred  Carew,  with  Cyrilla  Hendrick's  black  eyes.  My 
own  dear  Cy,  how  lonely  and  miserable  you  must  have  been 
all  these  years — how  much  you  have  suffered  since  we  met  last." 

"  I  have  wrought  my  own  destruction,  Sydney — I  deserve  no 
pity.  I  can  only  think  that  I  have  wrecked  his  life,  and  hate 
myself  for  it." 

"  You  have  heard  nothing  from  him  all  those  years  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  him  or  from  him  :  I  never  expect  to — I  do  not 
even  wish  it." 

"Not  wish  it?" 

"  No — we  could  never  be  happy  together ;  he  could  never 
trust  me,  he  could  have  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  wife  who 
so  basely  denied  him.  If  he  took  me  back  at  all,  it  would  be 
through  pity,  and  I  would  rather  be  as  I  am  than  that." 

"  Ah  !  Cy,  the  old  pride  is  not  dead  yet.  If  it  were  my  case, 
I  think  I  would  only  be  too  glad  to  be  taken  back  on  any 
terms.  It  is  strange  to  me  that  Mr.  Carew  has  not  sought  you 
out.  He  was  so  fond  of  you,  Cyrilla,  I  can't  understand  his 
resigning  you  wholly  for  one  fault ;  love  forgives  everything." 

"  Not  such  a  sin  as  mine  ;  and  Fred,  slow  to  anger,  is  also 
slow  to  forgive.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  I  am  resigned,  or 
try  to  be.  But  to  go  on — I  have  to  think  of  the  future,  not 
the  past." 

"  And  all  of  these  years  you  have  been  a  governess  in  a  school. 
What  a  destiny  for  you,  my  brilliant  Cyrilla  !  " 

Cyrilla  half  laughed. 

"  Do  you  remember  Aunt  Phil's  cheerful  prediction,  croaked 
out  so  often  ?  '  Mark  my  words,  my  niece  Cyrilla  will  come  to 
no  good  end.'  She  was  a  true  prophetess,  was  she  not?  And 
it  does  not  lighten  labor,  or  cheer  the  monotony,  to  feel  that  I 
owe  it  all  to  myself.  Well,  I  ought  to  be  thankful  in  the  main, 
I  suppose.  I  have  Teddy,  a  respectable  home  and  profession, 
they  are  all  kind  and  friendly,  and  I  save  money  for  a  rainy 
day.  It  is  better  fortune  than  I  deserve." 

"  You  are  greatly  changed,  Cy  ;  this  sad,  resigned  manner  is 
not  much  like  the  bright,  ambitious  Cyrilla  Hendrick  of  Petite 
St.  Jacques.  What  shuttlecocks  of  fortune  we  all  are  ! " 


TEDDY.  355 

"  Life's  battledore  has  hit  you  gently,  Syd  ;  I  never  thought 
fthat  you  would  grow  half  so  lovely.  Can  you  imagine  why 
I  have  sought  you  out  at  last  ?  " 

"  Remorse  of  conscience  at  having  neglected  me  so  long,  1 
should  hope." 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  I  have  come  to  remind  you  of  a  promise 
— made  first  in  school,  afterward  in  your  old  home  ;  a  promiso 
that  if  ever  I  stood  in  need  of  a  friend,  do  what  I  might,  }ou 
would  be  that  friend." 

"  I  remember,"  Sydney  answered,  with  emotion.  "  To  see 
you  and  be  your  friend  is  all  that  has  been  wanting,  since  my 
marriage,  to  make  my  happiness  complete.  What  is  it,  Cy- 
rilla?" 

"  That  you  will  take  my  boy  and  keep  him  for  me  until  I  can 
claim  him.  Mrs.  Martin  and  her  husband  are  going  to  Galves- 
ton,  and  Teddy  will  lose  his  home.  To  give  him  to  strangers 
I  cannot  endure  ;  but  if  you  will  take  him,  Sydney " 

Sydney's  answer  is  the  delighted  hug  she  inflicts  on  Master 
Teddy. 

"  Oh,  Cy  !  how  good  you  are  to  think  of  me.  I  love  chil- 
dren ;  do  I  need  to  tell  you  that  I  love  yours  above  all  ?  My 
pet,  kiss  Auntie  Sydney  !  I  am  going  to  be  your  mamma,  now. 
You  will  stay  with  me  Teddy,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Does  you  have  Johnny-cake  for  tea  ?  "  asked  Teddy,  cau- 
tiously, before  committing  himself  to  rash  promises.  '"Cause 
if  you  hasn't  I  won't." 

"  Johnny-cake,  pound-cake,  jelly,  oranges,  candies,  ice-cream 
— everything  ! "  says  Auntie  Sydney,  magnificently. 

"  Sen  I'll  stay  with  you,"  says  Teddy,  manifesting  no  emo- 
tion of  any  kind.  "  I  likes  oranges,  and  candy,  and  ice-cream. 
Does  you  keep  a  cow  ?  " 

"  Not  a  cow,  Teddy,  but  I  think  we  might  get  one  if  you 
wish  it  very  much.  And  a  pony — can  you  ride  a  pony,  Ted  ?  " 

"  I  can  wide  a  wockin'  hoss,"  answers  Teddy,  rousing  to 
enthusiasm  at  last.  "  I  can  make  him  gee  up,  bully,  like  every- 
sing  ! " 

"  Then  consider  yourself  master  of  a  wockin'-hoss  and  a  cow, 
and  oranges  unlimited.  Oh  !  Cyrilla,  why  cannot  you  stay  as 
well  as  Teddy,  and  make  your  home  with  me  ?  I  would  be  so 
happy " 

"  And  Mr.  Nolan  also,  no  doubt,"  says  Cyrilla,  smiling ;  "  men 
are  so  fond  of  having  their  wives'  bosom  friends  domiciled  with 
them.  No,  thank  you,  Syd  ;  I  have  my  life  work  to  do,  and 


356  TEDDY. 

will  do  it.  You  have  made  me  unutterably  grateful  by  taking 
Ted." 

"  You  will  miss  him  dreadfully,  Cy." 

"  Naturally,  but  it  must  be  done.  I  look  forward  to  a  time, 
a  few  years  hence,  when  1  will  have  a  home  of  my  own,  hovvevei 
humble,  where  my  pupils  may  come  to  me.  And  now  tell  me 
about  yourself,  dear;  I  have  selfishly  monopolized  the  time 
with  my  talking." 

"What  shall  I  tell?"  Sydney  answers  with  a  radiant  look. 
"  In  a  happy  wife's  history  there  is  no  romance.  It  is  only  life's 
sorrows  and  sufferings  that  make  interesting  stories.  No,  there 
is  nothing  to  tell.  I  am  married  and  happy — all  is  said  in 
that." 

"  I  have  never  seen  your  husband.  What  is  he  like  ?  Tall, 
short,  dark,  fair — which  ?  " 

"  I  will  show  you  his  photograph.  I  have  a  score,  more  or 
less,  about  the  house.  Oh,  dark  of  course,  but  it  is  useless  to 
ask  me  what  he  is  like.  /  don't  know.  It  is  months  since  I 
ceased  to  see  him — as  he  is." 

She  laughingly  produces  two  or  three  large-sized  photographs, 
taken  in  different  attitudes.  Cyrilla  examines  them  thought- 
fully. 

"  Is — is  Mr.  Nolan  handsome  ?  "  she  asks,  hesitatingly. 
"  These  things  are  such  caricatures  sometimes." 

"  Handsome  ?  "  repeats  Mr.  Nolan's  wife,  still  laughing  ;  "  is 
he  not  ?  I  am  sure  1  do  not  know.  I  see  only  an  idealized 
Lewis,  with  a  countenance  like  a  king,  whom  nobody  else,  not 
the  real  Lewis  himself  perhaps,  would  recognize.  I  only  saw 
him  once  as  others  see  him,  and  then  I  recollect  I  fancied  him 
rather  plain.  Need  I  say  it  would  be  rank  heresy  to  call  him 
plain  in  my  presence  now  ?  " 

Cyrilla  laughs  in  answer,  but  she  also  sighs. 

"  Happy  Sydney  !  It  is  a  face  one  likes,  strong  and  intellec- 
tual ;  better  still,  the  face  of  a  good  man.  Give  me  one,  and 
one  of  your  own  ;  it  will  be  pleasant  to  have  them  in  my  room." 

"  And  so  you  will  not  stay  ?  " 

"  Not  another  moment.  No,  Sydney,  do  not  entreat,  please  ; 
it  was  difficult  to  get  off — a  great  favor,  and  I  am  bound  by 
promise  to  make  no  delay  in  New  York.  I  shall  start  again  in 
an  hour." 

"  But  you  will  wait  and  see  my  husband  ?  "  Sydney  cries, 
aghast. 

"  Not  even  that  will  tempt  me.     A  promise  given  should  be  9 


A  T  THE  PL  A  Y  AND  AFTER.  357 

promise  kept.  I  must  go  this  very  instant.  Teddy,  mamma 
is  going  ;  what  have  you  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  Dood  by,"  says  this  young  philosopher,  his  two  little  paws 
in  his  two  little  pockets,  and  not  moving  a  muscle.  Cyrilla's 
lips  quiver  as  she  clasps  him  and  kisses  him. 

"  Teddy  will  be  a  good  boy,  and  not  make  Auntie  Sydney 
any  trouble  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  be  dood  when  I  gets  de  wockin-hoss,"  Teddy  re- 
plies, still  careful  not  to  commit  himself.  He  accepts  rather 
than  returns  his  mother's  caresses,  and  sees  her  depart  without 
winking  once.  Of  a  phlegmatic  and  unemotional  nature,  evi- 
dently, is  Frederic  Carew,  junior. 

So  Cyrillagoes,  and  Sydney  leads  Master  Ted  up  to  her  own 
room,  feeling  as  if  in  a  dream,  feeling  also  that  the  last  drop  of 
content  has  been  added  to  her  cup,  and  that  one  other  will  make 
it  brim  over  with  bliss. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

AT   THE    PLAY   AND   AFTER. 

JHE  first  week  of  October,  there  was  brought  out  at  a 
fashionable  Broadway  theatre,  a  new  play  by  an  old 
actor  and  dramatist.  The  new  piece,  like  all  the  new 
pieces  by  this  popular  playwright,  was  stolen  bodily 
from  the  French — so  all  the  other  players  and  playwrights  said  at 
least — the  mise  en  scene  changed  from  Paris  to  New  York.  The 
little  three-act  comedy,  sparkling  with  epigrams,  peppered  with 
satire,  rich  with  old  jokes  juicily  done  over,  and  as  full  of  capital 
situations  as  a  pudding  of  plums,  was  an  immense  success. 
Whatever  carping  critics  might  say,  the  good-natured  public 
were  disposed  O  forgive  many  sins  to  the  dramatist  because  he 
chaimed  much.  The  great  man  himself,  just  over  from  Europe, 
was  to  play  the  principal  part,  a  fascinating  old  serving-man  ; 
the  scenery  and  effects  were  exceptionally  fine,  and  the  music — 
but  everybody  knows  what  the  orchestra  of  that  theatre  is  like. 
The  house  was  filled  half  an  hour  before  the  rising  of  the  cur- 
tain, and  packed  at  a  quarter  to  eight.  At  eight,  there  was  not 
standing  room — people  had  secured  their  seats  a  fortnight 
ahead.  A  brilliant  assemblage  was  there,  the  women  beauti- 


358  AT   THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 

ful,  with  that  rare,  delicate  beauty  of  America,  to  be  surpassed 
nowhere  in  the  world,  and  the  curtain  arose  before  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  audiences  the  city  could  show. 

In  one  of  the  stage  boxes  sat  a  lady  who  had  attracted  con- 
siderable attention  before  the  rising  of  the  curtain.  This  lady, 
tall,  blonde,  beautiful,  very  simply  dressed,  attracted,  for  a  few 
moments,  a  steady  fire  of  lorgnettes,  and  was  Mrs.  Lewis 
Nolan.  Another  lady,  a  dashing  brunette,  much  more  brightly 
arrayed,  and  wearing  coral  ornaments,  was  Miss  Katie  Mac- 
gregor.  Behind  his  wife  sat  Mr.  Nolan,  partly  screened  by  her 
chair,  surveying  the  house  with  a  look  of  amusement  at  the  at- 
tention he  and  his  party  were  receiving.  The  young  ladies  sat 
in  full  view,  with  that  inimitable  air  of  utter  unconsciousness 
which  conies  so  naturally  to  women. 

Presently  the  orchestra  burst  forth  in  full  blast  with  a  grand 
march,  and  Mr.  Nolan  for  whom  music  had  charms,  resigned 
himself  to  listening  and  waiting  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Just 
then  Mrs.  Nolan,  perusing  her  bill,  uttered  a  little  exclama- 
tion. 

"Well,  Sydney,"  her  husband  said,  "  what  now  ?  " 

She  glanced  back  at  him,  a  startled  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  name  here  in  the  play-bill — a  name  that  I  have  seen 
before." 

"  Nothing  very  startling  in  that,  I  should  say.  The  names 
on  your  play-bill,  one  and  all,  should  be  tolerably  familiar  by 
this  time.  Let  me  see." 

She  hands  him  the  play-bill,  and  points  to  a  name  near  the 
end  of  the  list.  He  looks,  and  reads  Dolly  De  Courcy." 

It  has  startled  Sydney.  In  one  instant  the  scene  changes, 
and  it  is  a  stormy  November  night,  and  she  and  mamma,  Cyrilla 
and  Bertie,  are  seated  in  the  primitive  play-house,  waiting  for 
Lady  Teazle.  Five  years  ago  only,  and  what  great  and  sadden- 
ing changes.  Papa  and  mamma  dead,  Bertie  murdered,  Cyrilla 
worse  than  widowed,  she  alone  of  them  all  happy,  and  here,  and 
again  to  see  Dolly  De  Courcy.  She  had  been  happy  then  in  a 
different  way.  Yes,  positively  happy,  although  she  had  not 
known  such  a  being  as  Lewis  Nolan  existed  on  earth.  How 
impossible  to  conceive  of  any  happiness  now  where  he  was  not 
the  central  figure.  She  leans  back  and  glances  up  at  him,  a 
smile  in  the  lovely  eyes,  and  holds  out  her  hand  for  the  paper. 

''  Are  you  committing  it  to  memory,  monseigneur  ?  The 
curtain  is  rising — my  bill,  please." 

The  gravity  that  lias  left  her  face  seems  to  have  found  its  way 


AT  THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER.  359 

into  his.  He  hands  her  back  the  paper  with  no  answering 
smile. 

"  Where  did  you  ever  see  this  name  before  ? '  he  inquires. 
"  It  is  her  first  appearance  here." 

"I  saw  her  over  five  years  ago  at  a  theatre  in  Wychcliffe." 

"  It  is  odd  you  should  remember  the  name  so  well  after  so 
many  years." 

"It  would  be,  under  ordinary  circumstances,"  Sydney  says, in 
a  low  voice,  "  but  I  knew  her  under  rather  extraordinary  ones. 
I  lost  a  very  dear  friend,  and  she  was  at  one  time  supposed  to 
be  associated  with  his  death.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  another 
time — it  is  impossible  here." 

For  Sydney,  five  months  a  wife,  has  not  yet,  in  any  outburst 
of  connubial  confidence,  told  her  husband  the  story  of  Dolly  De 
Courcy  and  Bertie  Vaughan  ;  the  name  of  either,  in  fact,  has 
not  passed  her  lips.  She  has  a  vagoe  theory,  but  men  are 
averse  to  knowing  that  the  woman  they  marry  has  had  a  former 
lover  and  actually  been  on  the  brink  of  matrimony  with  another 
man.  And  the  slightest  thing  that  can  annoy  Lewis  she  avoids. 
It  is  an  exceedingly  painful  subject  even  at  this  distant  date,  a 
black  cloud  of  the  past,  that  will  only  needlessly  darken  the 
sunlight  of  the  present.  Besides,  they  make  a  compact  before 
marriage  to  let  the  dead  past  stay  dead  on  both  sides.  She  has 
told  him  she  was  once  engaged  :  he  that  he  was  once  before  in 
love — disagreeable  facts  both,  best  forgotten. 

The  play  goes  on — it  is  very  bright  and  witty,  and  Sydney 
laughs.  The  music  is  fine,  the  scenery  and  costumes  perfec- 
tion. It  is  a  drawing-room  comedy,  one  of  th«  Charles  Mathews' 
sort,  in  which  people  seem  to  behave  themselves  as  they  might  in 
their  own  drawing-rooms  at  home — only  such  badinage,  such  re- 
partee, such  smart  epigrams,  such  flashes  of  wit  and  wisdom, 
unhappily  one  rarely  hears  in  the  conversations  of  every-day 
life.  Mrs.  Nolan,  lying  back  in  her  chair  and  enjoying  it  im- 
mensely, forgets  all  about  Dolly  De  Courcy  and  the  memories 
the  name  brings,  and  at  every  telling  hit  glances  back  at  her 
husband  to  see  how  he  takes  it.  He  takes  it  all  rather  absently, 
Sydney  thinks,  his  very  answering  smiles  are  distrait ;  thinking 
of  his  eternal  (if  she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have  thought 
infernal)  law  business,  she  thinks,  half-impatiently.  But  it  is 
not  of  Inw  business  Nolan  is  musing,  for  when  the  curtain 
falls  he  leans  over  his  wife  and  resumes  the  subject  of  the 
actress. 

"  YOU  have  made  me  rather  curious,  Sydney,"  he  says,  "  by 


360  AT  THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 

your  remark.  How  was  it  possible  for  this  actress  to  be  in  any 
way  associated  with  the  death  of  any  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"She  was  suspected  at  one  time  of — having  killed  him," 
Sydney  answers,  in  a  nervous  tone.  "Don't  let  us  talk  of  it, 
Lewis,  please — at  least  not  here." 

"  One  more  question  :  What  was  your  friend's  name?" 

There  is  something  more  than  mere  curiosity  in  the  young 
lawyer's  face,  as  he  puts  this  question,  but  that  face,  in  which 
Sydney's  eyes  can  read  all  changes,  she  cannot  see  as  she  sits. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  get  up  a  case  at  this  late  day  ?  His 

name  was "  she  pauses  a  second,  with  the  strangest  feeling 

of  repugnance  to  uttering  it — "  Bertie  Vaughan." 

"Sydney,"  exclaims  Katie,  leaning  forward,  "here  comes 
Mr.  Vanderdonck.  I  thought  he  would  run  us  down  before 
the  evening  ended." 

Her  venerable  lover  enters  as  she  speaks,  makes  his  bow  to 
the  ladies,  and  accepts  a  seat  beside  his  betrothed. 

Another  gentleman,  a  poet  and  journalist  of  half  a  century, 
with  a  snowy  beard  and  a  dreamy  brow,  a  professed  admirer  of 
beautiful  Mrs.  Nolan,  follows,  and  takes  a  seat  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  performance  by  her  side. 

Conversation  becomes  general ;  but  Sydney  notices  that 
although  her  husband  drops  a  remark  now  and  then,  and  so 
avoids  notice,  he  is  singularly  silent,  and  that  a  sort  of  grayish 
pallor  has  come  over  his  face. 

"  You're  not  looking  well,  Nolan  ;  upon  my  life,  you're  not," 
remarks  Mr.  Vanderdonck.  "Don't  overwork  yourself  among 
the  big  books,  my  boy.  Distinction  will  come  soon  enough. 
It  never  pays  to  burn  the  candle  of  life  at  both  ends." 

The  curtain  rises  again,  and  a  coquettish  chambermaid  is 
discovered  dusting  the  furniture,  and  talking  to  herself,  as  is  the 
way  of  chambermaids — on  the  stage — singing  between  whiles 
snatches  of  popular  songs,  in  a  very  nice  voice.  The  chamber- 
maid is  Dolly  De  Courcy.  Sydney  looks  at  her  with  interest. 
So  far  as  she  can  see,  years  have  made  no  change  in  her.  She 
wears  her  own  abundant  black  hair  under  a  natty  cap  ;  and  the 
plump  figure,  she  can  recall,  is  as  rounded  and  ripe  as  ever. 
But  to  Sydney  the  face  is  repulsively  bold,  the  high  color  coarse, 
the  manner  brazen. 

Presently,  as  she  dusts  and  sings,  and  vivaciously  says  her 
lines,  she  approaches  their  box,  glances  up,  and  stares  full  at 
Sydney.  The  recognition  is  mutual.  For  the  space  of  five 
seconds  she  stands,  brush  in  hand,  her  song  suspended  ;  then 


AT  THE   PLAY  AND  AFTER.  361 

she  recovers  herself,  flashes  a  glance  at  the  others,  and  goes  on 
with  her  little  part.  Other  personages  appear,  the  comic  valet 
among  them,  who  make  the  sort  of  love  comic  valets  do  make 
to  singing  chambermaids.  Dolly  does  her  part  well — if  she  did 
not  she  would  not  be  here ;  but  through  the  whole  of  it  her 
eyes  are  fixed  every  other  instant  on  the  Nolan  box.  Not  on 
Mrs.  Nolan,  but  on  the  face  behind — her  husband's — with  an 
intensity  that  may  be  surprise,  recognition,  dislike — it  is  hard  to 
define  what.  She  takes  so  little  pains  to  conceal  at  whom  she 
stares,  that  they  all,  perforce,  notice  it. 

"  Is  that  little  soubrette  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours,  Nolan?" 
inquires  old  Vanderdonck,  with  an  unctuous  chuckle.  "  She 
doesn't  seem  able  to  take  her  eyes  off  you." 

"  She  Hoes  watch  you,  Lewis,"  says  Sydney,  in  wonder. 

"I  have  seen  her  before,"  Lewis  answers,  quietly. 

"  To  be  sure  you  have,"  says  old  Vanderdonck.  "  Don't  be 
jealous,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nolan  ;  we  have  all  been  acquainted 
with  pretty  little  actresses  in  our  day." 

"  What  a  horrid  old  man,"  thinks  Mrs.  Nolan,  disgusted. 
"  /  jealous  of  Lewis — absurd  !  " 

But  suddenly  there  returns  the  words,  half-spoken  by  Dick 
Macgregor — she  could  hardly  recall  them,  but  something  of  a 
grande passion  once  entertained  by  Lewis  for  somebody.  Was 
it  for  this  actress,  with  whom  Bertie  Vaughan  and  Ben  Ward 
used  to  flirt  ?  Lewis  himself  had  owned  to  a  former  attachment 
— was  it  for  Dolly  De  Courcy  ?  It  seemed  odd,  indeed,  if 
Dolly  could  twice  cross  her  path  as  rival.  She  certainly  did 
watch  him  in  a  very  marked  manner. 

During  that  act  and  the  next,  the  chambermaid  was  off  and 
on  in  several  of  the  scenes.  Perhaps  none  in  the  house  paid  as 
much  attention  to  the  dashing  little  coquette  as  the  party  in 
that  particular  box.  Mrs.  Nolan  looked  and  listened  to  her 
with  a  growing,  and,  very  likely,  unjust  sensation  of  dislike. 
She  was  coarse,  bold,  vulgar ;  what  could  men  see  in  her  ? 
what  could  Lewis,  whose  every  instinct  was  fastidious  and 
?cfined,  see  to  attract  him  in  a  creature  like  this  ?  In  the  an- 
noyance of  the  bare  thought,  gentle  Sydney  absolutely  called 
poor  Dolly  a  creature,  than  which  there  exists  no  word  of  more 
bitter  contempt  from  one  woman  to  another. 

The  play  ended  delightfully  ;  everybody  was  dismissed  to 

happiness,  the  singing  chambermaid  and  comic  valet  among  the 

rest,  and  even  the  critics  to  whom  gall  and  bitterness  are  the 

\vines  of  life,  went  home  and  only  mildly  abused  it.     The  two 

16 


362  AT  THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER. 

gentlemen  made  their  adieus  ;  Miss  Macgregor  went  to  Ma  3ison 
Avenue,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nolan  entered  their  carriage,  and 
were  driven  home. 

It  was  an  exquisite  October  night,  moonlight,  mild,  even  the 
streets  of  New  York  looked  poetical  under  the  crystal  rays. 
It  was  still  early,  the  city  clocks  were  only  striking  eleven  as 
they  crossed  their  own  threshold. 

"  I  must  run  and  have  a  peep  at  my  boy,"  says  Madame 
Sydney,  tripping  away. 

In  the  last  month  she  has  become  the  abject  slave  and  adorer 
of  Master  Teddy,  spoiling  him  as  thoroughly  and  completely 
as  any  doting  mamma.  With  the  fine  discrimination  of  his  years 
and  sex,  Teddy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  loftily  indifferent  to  all 
Auntie  Sydney's  kisses  and  caresses,  and  has  bestowed  his 
juvenile  heart  on  Uncle  Lewis,  at  the  first  sound  of  whose  foot- 
step he  precipitates  himself  down  the  stairs  and  into  his  legal 
coat  sleeves  with  jubilant  shrieks  of  welcome. 

Ted  is  in  his  crib  asleep,  rosy,  plump,  lovely,  a  very  cherub 
in  outward  seeming — alas  !  in  outward  seeming  only,  as  his  vic- 
timized nurse  but  too  well  knew.  She  kisses  him,  throws  off 
her  wraps,  and  hastens  to  the  apartment  where  she  is  pretty  sure 
of  finding  her  husband — a  little  gem  of  a  room  that  is  called  the 
master's  study  by  the  household,  and  where  he  answers  letters, 
etc.,  that  he  does  not  find  time  for  during  the  day.  He  is  there 
now,  the  gas  is  lit  over  the  green  table,  but  turned  down  to  one 
minute  point.  It  is  the  moonlight  streaming  between  the  cur- 
tains that  lights  the  room,  and  Mr.  Nolan  sits  near  one  of  the 
windows  gazing  out. 

"  Oh  !  wise  young  judge  !  of  what  is  your  honor  dreaming  ?  " 
his  wife  exclaims,  standing  behind  him  and  clasping  her  fingers 
across  his  breast.  "  To-morrow's  business,  I  am  certain.  Who- 
ever heard  of  a  lawyer  looking  at  the  moon  ?  " 

Nolan  smiles. 

"  I  was  neither  thinking  of  to-morrow's  business  nor  of  the 
moon.  I  was  thinking — will  you  wonder? — of  the  strangeness 
of  your  knowing  Dolly  De  Courcy." 

"  You  know  her,  Lewis." 

It  is  not  a  question,  it  is  an  assertion,  and  as  such  he  answers : 

"  Yes,  well — too  well,  years  ago.  But  this  Bertie  Vaughan  " 
(how  pat  he  has  the  name,  Sydney  thinks)  "  what  friend  of  yours 
was  he  ? 

She  perches  herself  lightly  on  his  knee,  and  lays  her  pretty 
golden  head  against  his  shoulder. 


AT   THE  PLAY  AND  AFTER.  363 

"  Lewi's,"  she  says,  caressingly,  "  you  will  not  care,  will  you  ? 
You  will  not  mind.  He  was  the  person  I  was  to  mairy." 

There  is  a  pause.  The  shadow  of  the  curtain  throws  that 
immobile  expression  over  her  husband's  face,  perhaps,  but  in 
the  half  light  it  looks  as  if  it  were  cut  in  stone. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  Sydney,"  he  says. 

"  1  would  have  told  you  long  ago,  Lewis — I  often  wished  to 
— but  I  was  afraid  it  might  pain  you  ever  so  little,  dear,  to  know 
that  once  before  my  wedding-day  was  named,  my  wedding  dress 
on,  and  that  I  was  ready  and  waiting  to  become  the  wife  of 
another  man.  I  was  only  fond  of  him  as  a  brother,  Lewis,  but 
still,  to  please  my  father,  I  would  have  married  him." 

And  then,  her  arm  around  his  neck,  her  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
she  tells  him  all  that  strange,  tragical  story  of  the  past — the 
mystery  still  unravelled  of  that  night. 

"  Whoever  killed  Bertie,  if  he  were  killed,  committed  a  double 
murder,  for  he  killed  papa  as  well.  But  I  cannot  think  he  was 
murdered  ;  he  had  no  enemies,  poor  Bertie,  and  what  motive 
could  any  one  have  for  so  dreadful  a  deed  ?  It  has  changed  my 
•whole  life — it  brought  on  papa's  death,  as  I  say;  it  broke  up 
our  home.  Papa  certainly  believed  he  had  been  thrown  over 
the  cliff,  and  on  his  death-bed,  Lewis,  made  me  promise  to  bring 
the  assassin  to  justice,  if  it  ever  was  in  my  power.  I  promised, 
and  that  promise  troubles  me  sometimes,  for  I  do  nothing,  of 
course,  to  discover  the  guilty  person.  If  papa  had  lived  he 
would  never  have  given  up  until  he  had  done  it." 

"  But  if  you  ever  do  meet  him  " — how  hollow  a  sound  has 
Lewis  Nolan's  voice — "you  will  keep  that  promise — you  will 
deliver  up  this  murderer  of  Bertie  Vaughan  !  " 

"  Lewis  !  how  hoarse  you  are  !  "  She  lifts  her  head,  but  she 
can  only  see  the  rigid  outline  of  his  face. 

"  Well — what  else  can  I  do  ?  My  promise  to  my  father 
binds  me,  and  it  would  be  only  just.  Still  it  would  be  a  very 
dreadful  thing  to  have  to  do.  I  hope  I  never  may  find  him — 
it  would  be  hard  indeed  to  let  him  go  unpunished.  Do  you 
remember,  Lewis,  how  deeply  I  felt  about  Mrs.  Harland,  how 
indignant  I  was  with  you  for  defending  her?  Well,  1  was  no! 
thinking  of  her  at  all,  but  of  poor  Bertie  ;  thinking  how  I  would 
abhor  the  lawyer  who  would  stand  up  and  defend  his  assassin/ 

"  Even  if  he  were  thrown  over  the  cliff,  as  Harland  was  shot 
in  a  moment  of  reckless  passion  ?" 

"  Even  so.  To  give  way  to  reckless  passion  is  in  itself  i 
sin — how  can  a  lesser  crime  stand  as  excuse  for  a  greater  i  n 


364  AT   THE  PLAY  AND   AFTER. 

What  right  has  any  one  to  give  way  to  reckless  passion  and  lift 
his  hand  against  his  brother's  life,  taking  that  gift  which  God 
gave,  and  which  all  the  power  of  earth  cannot  restore  ?  " 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Sydney.  If  ever  you  find  the  man  who 
killed  Bertie  Vaughan,  you  will  be  fully  justified  in  giving  him 
up  to  the  punishment  he  has  so  richly  earned." 

"  You  think  he  was  killed,  then  ?  " 

"I  think  so." 

She  remains  still,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  glory  of  moonlight  on 
earth  and  sky,  her  mind  vaguely  troubled. 

"  I  hope  I  may  never  meet  him,"  she  says.    "  I  do  not  want  to 

be  an  avenger.     I  wish  papa  had  not  made  me  give  that  promise. 

I  believe  I  could  not  keep  it  after  all — it  would  haunt  me  all 

my  life  to  bring  punishment  on  another." 

He  sits  silent.    She  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  him  once  more. 

"  Lewis,"  she  says,  uneasily,  "it  has  not  vexed  you,  this  story 
I  have  told,  or  my  keeping  it  from  you  so  long  ?  " 

"  Vexed  me  ?     You  vex  me,  my  Sydney  ?  " 

Then  he  suddenly  rises  and  gently  puts  her  from  him. 

"  It  is  almost  twelve,  and  time  you  were  asleep.  You  were 
dancing  all  last  night,  remember.  Don't  sit  up  any  longer." 

He  turns  up  the  gas,  floods  the  room  with  light,  and  begins 
assorting  letters  and  papers  on  the  table. 

"  And  you,  Lewis  ?  You  are  going  to  burn  the  midnight 
oil,  as  usual,  I  suppose,  and  have  everybody  telling  you  how 
badly  you  are  looking,  and  that  you  are  working  yourself  to 
death.  People  will  begin  to  think  your  married  life  is  so  miser- 
able that  you  are  wearing  away  to  a  shadow." 

He   smiles,  but  he  does  not  look  at  her. 

"  No  one  will  ever  think  that,  my  princess,  but  I  promise  not 
to  write  long  to-night." 

Mr.  Nolan  has  retained  a  bad  habit  of  answering  a  dozen  or 
more  letters  every  night,  when  he  should  be  virtuously  asleep. 
With  his  countryman,  Tom  Moore,  he  believed  that 

"  The  best  of  all  ways  to  lengthen  your  days 

Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear  ;  " 

and  all  expostulations  to  combat  this  vicious  custom  were  fu- 
tile. 

She  lingers  a  moment  at  the  door  to  watch  him  as  he  begins 
work.  It  is  a  picture  she  recalls,  with  what  pain  and  bitter- 
ness it  would  be  vain  to  tell,  in  later  days. 

The  cozy  room,  rich  in   every   costly  and  elegant  appoint- 


A   VISIT  AND  A   GOLDEN  WEDDING.  365 

merit,  the  weU-nlled  book-cases  surmounted  by  busts  of  emi- 
nent lawyers  and  statesmen,  portraits  of  sundry  fathers  of  their 
country,  a  carpet  like  moss,  the  tube  of  gas  pulled  down  to 
the  table,  and  the  rapid  hand  dashing  over  the  sheet.  It  is  a 
scene  that  stands  out  vividly  to  the  day  of  her  death. 

He  knows  that  she  is  lingering  there,  but  he  neither  pauses 
nor  looks  round.  Only  when  she  is  gone  the  pen  drops  fiom 
his  fingers,  and  he  takes  it  up  no  more.  His  elbows  on  the 
table,  his  face  bowed  in  both  hands,  so  he  sits,  heedless  of  time. 
The  mellow  morning  hours  pale  and  pass,  the  little  brown  Eng- 
lish sparrows  in  the  trees  outside  twitter  and  talk  as  the  pink 
dawn  breaks,  and  up-starirs  Sydney  lies  asleep,  an  innocent  smile 
on  her  lips.  But  Lewis  has  not  slept,  has  hardly  stirred,  the 
night  through. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   VISIT  AND   A   GOLDEN    WEDDING. 

IVE  days  after  this,  on  Wednesday  the  eleventh  of  Oc- 
tober, an  event  of  very  considerable  importance  in  cer- 
tain circles  was  to  transpire— the  golden  wedding  cele- 
bration of  the  famous  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck.  Mr. 
Ten  Eyck  (so  let  us  call  him,  although  of  course  we  dare  take 
no  such  liberty  with  his  highly  respectable  name  as  to  introduce 
it  inio  these  pages)  is  a  man  whose  invitations,  like  those  of 
royalty,  are  equivalent  to  commands.  No  one  dreams  of  refusing. 
Lewis  Nolan  even,  who  is  indifferent  to  most  invitations,  and 
rarely  cared  to  court  favor,  does  not  consider  it  derogatory  to  ac- 
cept promptly  and  with  pleasure  this  card  for  Wednesday  night. 
In  certain  political  dreams  which  this  aspiring  young  man  has 
dreamed,  Mr.  Ten  Eyck's  favor  and  patronage  may  be  of  im- 
mense advantage,  for  among  the  rulers  who  sit  at  the  gates  and 
administer  wisdom  and  equity,  his  name  has  been  a  tower  of 
might.  A  mighty  sachem  in  the  wigwams  of  the  pale  faces  ;  an 
old-time  Democrat  as  to  politics,  ex-governor  of  a  State,  owner 
of  a  line  of  ocean  steamers,  and  whose  millions  no  man  pre- 
sumes to  count — that  is  Mr.  Ten  Eyck. 

"You  really  will  go  then,    Lewis?"  says  Mrs.  Lewis,  with 


366  A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

pleasure,  when  the  cards  arrived,  for  Lewis  had  an  adroit  way 
of  slipping  out  of  unwelcome  invitation?  at  the  eleventh  Lour. 
"  I  may  count  upon  you  for  the  golden  wedding  ?  " 

"  Who  refuses  Ten  Eyck  ?  Not  I  !  "  laughs  Nolan.  "  Little 
men  must  bow  down  before  great  ones.  I  expect  to  ask  a  favor 
or  two  of  the  great  T.  E.  before  very  long." 

This  had  passed  on  the  day  preceding  the  theatre-going,  and 
no  mention  had  been  made  of  the  subject  since  that  night  when 
Mr.  Nolan  had  still  further  recklessly  risked  his  health  by  falling 
asleep  over  his  odious  papers,  as  Mrs.  N.  indignantly  found  out. 
He  had  been  more  absent,  more  silent,  more  serious,  more  pre- 
occupied, than  she  had  ever  seen  him  since.  Once  or  twice — 
quite  a  new  thing — he  had  not  come  home  to  dinner,  and  when 
he  did  return,  he  looked  so  haggard,  so  weary,  that  Sydney  was 
growing  seriously  alarmed.  His  was  a  countenance  that  told 
but  little  of  what  was  passing  within  ;  but  something  more  than 
ordinary,  something  more  than  mere  press  of  business,  was  weigh- 
ing upon  him  now. 

"  Do  you  still  intend  to  go  to  the  Ten  Eyck's,  Lewis  ?  "  she 
asked  on  Wednesday  morning  at  breakfast. 

She  asked  it  half  timidly,  for  something  in  her  husband's  looks 
and  manner  of  late  almost  awed  her.  She  was  growing  bewil- 
dered and  frightened,  poor  child,  by  the  change  in  him  ;  in  spite 
of  her  clinging  affection  he  seemed  slipping  away  from'  her ; 
there  were  places  in  his  life,  it  seemed,  and  thoughts  in  his  heart, 
she  could  not  share,  and  her  cup  of  felicity  was  not  quite  with- 
out alloy,  at  last. 

"  Do  you  still  intend  to  go  ?"  she  repeats.  "You  have  ac- 
cepted, you  know." 

He  looks  across  from  the  morning  paper  he  holds,  with  eyes 
whose  depth  of  tenderness  she  cannot  doubt,  and  yet  with  some- 
thing beside  she  does  not  understand. 

"I  will  go,  Sydney — I  shall  not  fail  you  to-night." 

The  answer  is  simple  enough,  surely,  but  somehow  it  makes 
Sydney  vaguely  uneasy.  "  I  shall  not  fail  you  to-night."  It 
sounds  oddly  as  though  he  had  added,  "  It  is  for  the  last  time." 
She  looks  wistfully  at  him,  but  he  has  gone  gravely  back  to  his 
paper.  How  worn  that  dear  face  grows !  Oh  !  what  is  this 
that  is  coming  between  them,  this  dark  vague  cloud  that  has 
neither  shape  nor  name  ?  She  goes  with  him  to  the  door,  lin- 
gering beside  him  as  he  puts  on  his  light  overcoat,  still  silent,  still 
wistful,  still  troubled.  Is  it  a  presentiment  that  this  is  the  last 
time  she  will  ever  so  linger  ?  Does  he  feel  it,  too,  or  is  it 


A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING.  36? 

some  secret  knowledge  that  makes  his  parting  embrace  so 
tender  ? 

"  Good-bye,  my  princess,"  he  says,  and  is  gone 

She  wanders  about  the  house,  that  vague,  restless  trouble  still 
haunting  her.  What  is  the  matter  with  Lewis — what  secret  has 
he  from  her  ?  Is  he  ceasing  to  love  her  ?  No,  she  does  not 
doubt  that,  whatever  she  doubts.  Has  he  had  trouble  with  Mr. 
Graham  ? — losses,  disappointments  in  business  ?  Oh,  how 
foolish  to  trouble  about  such  trifles,  and  they  so  rich.  She  tries 
to  read  and  fails  ;  attempts  fancy  work  and  throws  it  aside  in 
disgust ;  sits  down  to  practise  a  new  song  Lewis  has  brought  her, 
and  fancies  she  can't  sing.  She  goes  to  the  nursery  and  pro- 
poses a  game  of  romps  ;  but  Teddy  is  going  out  in  his  goat-car- 
riage with  his  bonne,  and  loftily  declines.  Shall  she  go  down 
town  and  see  Lucy,  and  so  pass  the  dragging  hours  ?  No,  she  is 
too  listless  to  go  out  of  doors — she  must  dawdle  about  as  best  she 
may  until  dinner  hour  brings  Lewis,  and  dressing  time.  An  in- 
tense longing  to  see  him  again  takes  possession  of  her  ;  she  will 
put  her  arms  around  him,  and  beg  him  to  tell  her  the  trouble 
between  them.  Her  entreaties,  her  tears,  he  can  never  resist ; 
whatever  the  cloud  is,  it  shall  be  dispelled.  Why  has  she  not 
thought  of  this  before  ? — how  silly  to  go  on  wondering  and  fret- 
ting when  a  few  words  would  have  broken  down  the  barrier  of 
reserve.  So  strong  does  this  longing  grow,  that  once  she  rises 
and  stretches  forth  her  hand  to  order  the  carriage  and  drive 
down  to  the  office  immediately.  But  she  stops  and  laughs  at 
her  own  impatience.  Mr.  Graham  will  be  there,  and  the  clerks  ; 
and  Lewis'  look  of  silent  wonder  and  disapprobation  would  be 
terrible.  No,  she  would  wait  until  evening  and  drive  down  for 
him  then. 

"  I  grow  worse  and  worse  evejy  day,"  muses  Mrs.  Nolan. 
"  One  would  think  I  was  married  yesterday,  and  could  not  bear 
Lewis  out  of  my  sight.  I  will  do  nothing  so  ridiculous  ;  I  will 
wait;  only  I  wish  it  were  five  instead  of  eleven  o'clock." 

Half-past  twelve  is  luncheon  hour.  As  Mrs.  Nolan  sits  down 
with  Teddy  to  that  mid-day  refection,  a  boy  from  the  office 
comes  with  a  buff  envelope,  addressed  in  Mr.  Nolan's  none  too 
legible  hand  : 

44 Mv  DEAREST:  Do  not  wait  for  me  this  evening;  I  shall 
6e  detained,  and  will  probably  not  reach  the  house  until  after 
eleven.  Go  at  your  own  hour — we  will  meet  there.  Affection 
ately,  LEWIS." 


368  A  VISIT  AND   4  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

Will  it  be  believed  ? — she  has  been  married  nearly  half  a  year, 
remember — Mrs.  Nolan  actually  cried  over  this  note !  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  have  that  explanation,  to  go  to  the  golden 
wedding  in  a  golden  glow  of  peace,  proud  and  happy  on  her 
husband's  arm,  and  now  she  must  go  alone,  and  he  would  put 
in  an  appearance  after  midnight,  or  perhaps  not  at  all. 

"Was  the  matter,  Auntie  Syd?"  pipes  Teddy,  opening  his 
brown  solemn  eyes.  "  Was  you  cwying  'bout  ?  Gimme  some 
more  chicken  pie.  Was  you  cwying  for  ?  I  ain't  done  nossin, 
has  I  ?  " 

Auntie  Syd  wipes  away  those  rebellious  tears,  and  laughs  and 
helps  Ted  to  chicken-pie. 

"Was  I  cwyin'  'bout, — what,  indeed?  Auntie  Syd  is  only  an 
overgrown  baby,  after  all,  Master  Ted,  not  half  as  much  of  a 
hero  as  yourself.  Auntie  won't  cry  any  more." 

She  keeps  her  word,  but  the  afternoon  is  utterly  spoiled. 
She  takes  a  book,  lies  down  in  her  own  room,  darkens  it,  and 
tries  to  read  herself  to  sleep.  She  succeeds,  and  the  slanting 
yellow  lances  of  sunshine  that  make  their  way  in,  tell  her  when 
she  wakes  that  it  is  late.  She  looks  at  her  watch — past  five. 
She  sits  up  refreshed,  and  buoyant  once  more,  for  the  troubles 
of  her  waking  life  have  not  followed  her  into  dreamland.  She 
goes  down-stairs  at  once  towards  the  dining-room,  and  at  the 
hall-door  hears  bell-boy  Jim  in  magisterial  discussion  with  some- 
body who  wants  admission. 

"  Master  ain't  home,  I  tell  yer  ;  and  if  he  was,  why  don't  you 
go  'round  to  the  airy  door.  He  ain't  home,  and  I  dunno  when 
he  will  be,  and  you  can  leave  your  name,  and  call  again." 

"  I  can't  call  again — what's  more  I  won't,"  replied,  a  shrill 
feminine  voice.  "  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Nolan,  and  I'll  wait  till 
I  do.  Area  door,  indeed  !  I  knew  Mr.  Lewis  Nolan  when  he 
had  neither  areas,  nor  hifalution  houses,  nor  impudent  little 
niggers  like  you." 

"  What  is  this  ?"  says  the  gentle  tones  of  Mrs.  Nolan,  and 
bell-boy  Jim,  "clothed  in  a  little  brief  authority,"  falls  back 
before  his  mistress. 

"It's  a  young  woman,  missis,  wants  to  see  master.  I've 
told  her  he  ain't  home  yet,  but  she  won't  go." 

Sydney  looks,  then  recoils  with  a  strange  shrinking  ;  for  the 
young  woman,  pert  of  aspect,  loud  of  dress,  is  Dolly  De 
Courcy. 

There  is  a  moment's  silence ;  even  audacious  Dolly  seeml 
taken  aback,  but  not  for  long. 


A  VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING.  360 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Nolan,"  she  says,  with  a  defiant  toss. 
"  He  lives  here,  don't  he?  I've  had  trouble  enough  hunting 
him  up,  Lord  knows  ;  I  ain't  going  back  without  seeing  him  now." 

"  Mr.  Nolan  is  not  coming  home  to  dinner — will  not  return 
until  eleven,  probably.  If  it  is  anything  I  can  do  in  his  place — " 

"  V.'iY.yyu  see  me?"  says  Dolly,  with  a  certain  incredulity 
in  her  tone. 

"  Undoubtedly,  if  it  is  anything  I  can  attend  to  as  well." 

"  I  don't  know  but  that  you  can,"  says  Miss  De  Courcy, 
with  a  disagreeable  little  laugh  ;  "  perhaps  better  than  Lewis — 
oh,  beg  pardon  !  I  mean  Mr.  Nolan." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  the  speech  brings  the  blood  to 
Sydney's  cheeks,  and  her  manner  changes  from  gentleness  to 
cold  formality. 

"  Will  you  walk  this  way  ?  And  I  must  beg  you  to  make 
your  business  brief,  for  I  am  very  much  occupied  this  evening." 

"  I  won't  keep  you  long,"  is  Dolly's  answer. 

She  follows  Mrs.  Nolan  into  one  of  the  smaller  reception 
rooms,  and  gazes  in  undisguised  wonder  and  admiration  at  the 
stately  magnificence. 

"Ain't  this  just  splendid  !  "  Dolly  says,  half-audibly ;  "  and 
all  his  !  Well,  it's  better  to  be  born  lucky  than  rich.  I  guess 
he  ain't  sorry,  when  he  looks  at  all  this,  that  I  didn't  marry  him 
when  he  wanted  me  to." 

The  color  deepens  in  Sydney's  face.  Can  it  be,  indeed,  that 
Lewis — her  Lewis — has  ever  loved,  and  wished  to  marry,  this 
woman  ?  In  the  thought  there  is  unutterable  paiii  and  humili- 
ation. In  the  pure,  piercing  light  of  day.  withou.  stage  paints 
or  powders,  the  actress  looks  haggard  and  repulsi1  e,  on  her  un- 
blushing front  a  brand  there's  no  mistaking. 

Sydney  shrinks  a  little,  but  she  waits  quietly. 

"  What  is  it  you  want  ?  "  she  asks. 

They  both  still  stand  ;  Mrs.  Nolan  cannot  quite  ask  her  to 
sit  down. 

"  You  know  who  I  am  ?"  demands  Dolly  De  Courcy. 

"  I  saw  you  at  the  theatre  last  week." 

"He  saw  me,  too,  didn't  he? — Lewis,  you  kno«.  Oh  !  I 
beg  pardon  again  :  of  course  I  mean  Mister  Nolan."  A  toss 
of  the  head,  an  insolent  giggle.  The  Dolly  De  Courcy  of  to- 
day, it  is  evident,  has  sunk  pitifully  below  the  Dully  of  five  yean 
ago. 

"  Mr.  Nolan  saw  you,  and  recognized  you,  I  believe.     Ha 
Baid  he  had  known  you  before." 
16* 


37°  A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

tc  Did  he  say  he  wanted  me  to  marry  him — that  he  was  dead 
in  love  with  me — that  he  was  madly  jealous  of — no  matter 
who — that  he  prayed  and  begged  me  to  marry  him,  and 
that  I  wouldn't?  Did  he  tell  you  that?"  insolently  demands 
Dolly. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  business  here  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Nolan, 
with  a  stately  coldness.  "  I  have  no  time  to  waste." 

"  With  such  as  me,  I  understand.  But  mind,  you  offered  to 
see  me  yourself — I  didn't  come  to  see  you.  I  never  expected 
to  speak  to  you.  But  it's  queer — oh,  'good  Lord  !' it's  the 
queerest  thing  I  have  ever  heard  of — that  you,  you  of  all  peo- 
ple, should  go  and  marry  him  !  " 

Sydney  stands  silent  looking  at  her — the  color  fading  from 
her  face. 

"  I  knew  you  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you,"  pursues  the 
actress,  "  and,  I  declare,  it  almost  knocked  me  over.  I  had 
heard  Lewis  had  married  a  New  York  heiress,  but  never  heard 
her  name  ;  and  if  I  had  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  was  that 
Miss  Owenson.  Why,  it's  horrid  of  him  to  deceive  you  so,  be- 
cause, if  you  knew,  I  don't  believe  you  would  have  married 
him."' 

What  is  this  ?  Sydney  stands  quite  rigid,  holding  a  chair, 
her  eyes  on  Dolly's  face,  her  own  fixed  and  white. 

"Of  course  he  knew,"  pursues  Miss  De  Courcy,  "and  it's 
what  I  wouldn't  have  expected  of  him,  because,  with  all  his 
fiery  temper  and  jealousy,  he  usn't  to  like  that.  But  I  suppose 
he  thought  it  a  great  thing  to  carry  off  a  beauty,  and  an  heir- 
ess, and  a  fine  lady.  He  doesn't  think  I  know  as  much  as  I 
do,  and  the  minute  I  heard  he  had  married  rich,  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  hunt  him  up  and  just  scare  him  a  little  ;  but  I  didn't 
think,"  cries  Dolly,  with  a  tragic  air,  I  didn't  think  he  would 
have  dared  to  marry  you" 

Still  Mrs.  Nolan  stands  fixed,  white,  every  faculty  of  mind 
and  body  seeming  to  be  absorbed  and  gazing  at  Dolly,  and 
listening  to  Dolly. 

"  What  I  want  is  money,"  pursues  the  actress,  coming 
briskly  back  to  business.  "  It's  what  I've  come  after,  and  what 
I  must  have.  I  am  going  to  leave  New  York,  and  I  want  two 
or  three  thousand  for  a  suitable  wardrobe,  and  that  Mr.  Lewis 
has  got  to  give  me,  or — well,  never  mind  what,  now.  If  you'll 
let  me  wait,  I'll  wait  till  he  comes  ;  he  won't  refuse  so  old  a 
friend,"  Dolly  laughs  again.  "  And  besides,  I  want  to  congratu- 
late him.  Why,  it's  like  one  of  our  pieces  exactly,  his  doing 


A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING.  371 

what  he  has  done,  and  then  marrying  you,  and  me  turning  up, 
knowing  everything.  But  he  ought  not  to  have  married  you — • 
it  wasn't  the  square  thing,  and  that  I  mean  to  tell  him." 

Sydney  wakes  from  her  trance.  Whatever  horrible  meaning 
lies  beneath  this  wretched  woman's  words  :  one  thing  she  feels 
that  for  some  misdemeanor  of  the  past  she  intends  to  an- 
noy and  torment  Lewis — Lewis,  who  is  sufficiently  annoyed  by 
business  already.  She  takes  out  her  pocket-book. 

"  If  you  are  poor,"  she  says,  "  I  will  help  you.  If  you  have 
any  claim  upon  my  husband's  kindness,  it  will  not  be  disre- 
garded. I  will  tell  him  you  have  been  here,  and  he  will  know 
what  is  right  to  be  done.  Meantime  take  this  from  me,  and 
do  not  return.  Leave  your  address,  and  you  shall  hear  from 
us." 

Dolly  looks  at  her  curiously,  but  she  takes  the  bills,  counts 
tnem  over,  and  puts  them  in  her  pocket. 

"  What  did  you  marry  him  for,  I  wonder  ?  "  she  says,  as  if  to 
herself,  with  a  puzzled  look  at  Sydney.  "  You're  awfully  pretty 
— I  never  saw  any  one  prettier — and  rich,  and  respectable,  and 
everything.  He  isn't  handsome — at  least  I  don't  think  so. 
Never  could  hold  a  candle  to  Bertie  Vaughan." 

Sydney  recoiled  at  the  sudden  sound  of  that  name. 

"  You  never  found  out  who  killed  him,  did  you  ?  He  was 
thrown  over  the  bank,  you  know,  and  they  suspected  me." 
Here  Miss  De  Courcy  laughs,  with  a  certain  savage  light  in  her 
black  eyes.  "  He  was  a  sneak  and  a  liar  anyway.  It  was  good 
enough  for  him — telling  lies  to  you  and  lies  to  me.  "  Didn't 
you  ever  tell  your  husband  you  were  going  to  be  married  to 
him." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  He  has  deceived  you,  then  ;  men  are  all  alike — liars  every 
one  of  them.  Well,  when  he  comes  home  to-night  ask  him 
if  he  ever  knew  Bertie  Vaughan  ;  ask  him  how  they  parted 
last ;  tell  him  I  told  you,  and  that  I  can  tell  you  more.  Don't 
forget.  I'll  be  back  to-morrow." 

Miss  De  Courcy  turns  with  the  words,  and  goes  out  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Nolan  makes  no  attempt  to  follow  her,  to  bring 
her  back,  to  ask 'an  explanation.  She  stands  feeling  that  the 
room  is  going  round,  and  that  if  she  lets  go  her  hold  of  the 
chair  she  will  fall.  But  the  giddiness  passes  in  a  moment,  and 
she  gropes  for  a  chair,  and  sits  down,  and  lays  her  head  upon 
the  cushion,  feeling  sick  and  faint. 

What  does  this  dreadful  woman  mean  ?     Her  NO:  ds  are  all 


372  A   VISIT  AND  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

confused  in  Sydney's  mind ;  only  one  thing  stands  clear,  and 
that — that  he  has  known  Bertie  Vaughan,  and  knows  who  killed 
him.  But  that  is  impossible.  Has  she  not  told  her  husband 
the  whole  story,  and  has  he  said  he  ever  heard  the  name  before, 
ever  met  Bertie  in  his  life  ?  The  creature  must  be  crazy  01 
drunk,  or  both  •  her  story  is  absurd  on  the  face  of  it.  But  wha! 
a  shock  even  an  absurd  story  can  give.  She  laughs  weakly  at 
her  own  folly  in  being  so  overcome,  and  then  a  glow  of  indigna- 
tion fills  her,  and  lends  her  strength.  How  shameful  that  she 
should  have  listened  while  her  husband  was  defamed,  called  a 
liar  and  deceiver  by  this  vulgar  actress — her  beloved  husband, 
with  the  glance  of  a  prince,  honored  and  respected  of  all  men. 
Excitement  follows  indignation — no  more  lassitude  now.  She 
tries  to  dine,  but  finds  eating  a  delusion. 

An  artist  in  hair  comes  to  dress  those  flowing  blonde  tresses, 
greatly  admired,  and  she  is  nearly  an  hour  under  his  profes- 
sional hands.  Night  has  fallen,  gas  is  lit,  and  she  is  leaving, 
dressed  for  the  ball.  She  wears  white  and  rich  laces,  and  bridal 
pearls,  and  looks  lovely.  There  is  a  streaming  light  in  her 
eyes,  a  deep,  permanent  flush  on  her  cheeks  that  makes  her 
absolutely  brilliant  to-night.  After  eleven  she  will  see  Lewis ; 
that  is  the  one  thought,  the  one  desire  uppermost  in  her  mind, 
as  she  is  driven  to  the  town  house  of  the  Ten  Eycks.  A 
lengthy  file  of  carriages  block  the  avenue,  policemen  keep 
order,  two  large  private  lamps  burn  before  the  house,  which  is 
lit  from  roof  to  basement.  A  red  carpet  is  laid  across  the 
pavement — colored  men  in  snowy  shirt  fronts,  kid  gloves,  black 
broadcloth  and  beautiful  manners,  stand  in  waiting.  It  is  a 
long  time  before  Mrs.  Nolan  finds  her  way  to  the  lofty  and 
superb  saloon  where  Madame  Ten  Eyck  receives  her  guests. 
Flowers  bloom  everywhere,  literally  everywhere,  gaslight  floods 
every  corner  ;  it  is  a  picture  all  light  and  no  shadow,  German 
dance  music  fills  the  air,  and  there  are  crowds  of  elegant 
women  in  magnificent  toilets.  All  are  making  their  way  to 
where  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck,  a  little  old  lady  in  creamy  satin,  yellow 
point,  priceless  diamonds,  with  a  severe  silvery  face,  snow- 
white  hair,  combed  back  a  la  Washington,  stands  in  state. 
She  looks  like  a  large  doll,  or  a  little  duchess — Sydney  hardly 
knows  which — and  she  receives  Mrs.  Nolan  with  distinction. 

"  I  was  an  heiress  myself,  my  dear,"  the  little  old  lady  said 
to  her,  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting  ;  "  only  not  half 
so  great  an  heiress  as  they  tell  me  yov-  are,  and  not  quarter  as 
great  a  beauty.  I  ran  away  with  Ten  Eyck,  my  dear — he 


A    VISIT  AND  A    GOLDEN  WEDDING.  373 

didn't  run  away  with  me,  m  nd — when  I  was  only  seventeen. 
My  father  cut  me  off  with  a  shilling,  and  we  began  housekeep- 
ing on  eighty  dollars.  I  fell  in  love  with  yoa-r  my  dear,  the 
moment  I  heard  what  you  had  done.  I  don't  understand  the 
young  women  of  the  present  day — they  believe  in  marriage  but 
not  in  love.  In  my  time  we  believed  in  love,  if  we  never  were 
able  to  marry." 

It  was  Sydney's  good  fortune  to  attract  elderly  people. 
Men  worn  and  gray  in  life's  long  battle  looked  after  the  lissome 
shape,  and  frank,  sweet  face,  with  a  gravely  tender  smile. 
Mr.  Ten  Eyck,  a  patriarchal  old  gentleman,  greeted  her  with 
unwonted  cordiality,  inquired  for  her  husband,  hoped  he  would 
be  here,  had  heard  great  things  predicted  of  him,  hoped  he 
would  prove  worthy  of  the  wife  he  had  won,  and  verify  these 
predictions. 

Mrs.  Nolan  found  herself  at  once  surrounded  and  engaged 
for  every  dance  before  supper.  People  remembered  afterward 
that  never  had  she  seemed  so  fair  or  so  brilliant  as  to-night. 

It  was  ten  when  Sydney  entered  the  house  ;  eleven  came, 
twelve,  and  still  no  Lewis.  A  fever  of  expectation,  impa- 
tience, longing,  filled  her.  In  half  an  hour  supper  would  be 
commenced — surely  he  would  be  here  to  take  her  down. 

She  made  her  escape  from  her  latest  partner,  and  took 
shelter  in  the  curtained  recess  of  an  open  bay  window.  How 
cool  and  fresh  seemed  the  sharp  night  air ;  imprudent  perhaps 
to  sit  in  a  draught,  but  darkness  and  solitude  were  tempting. 
Excitement  had  made  her  head  ache,  and  her  cheeks  burn. 
She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cool  glass,  and  looked  up 
at  the  million  stars  keeping  watch  over  the  great  city.  Some 
men  were  talking  in  the  piazza  just  outside,  their  voices  blended 
with  the  music  within,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  cigars  they  were 
smoking  came  to  her  as  she  sat.  They  were  talking,  in  a 
desultory  way,  of  the  ball,  of  the  ladies,  of  the  war ;  all  at  once 
she  heard  her  own  name  pronounced — some  one  was  saying 
she  was  the  prettiest  woman  present.  Some  one  else  spoke 
of  her  husband's  absence,  a  third  made  some  campaigning 
remark,  and  the  subjects  seemed  to  connect  themselves  in  bis 
mind. 

Why  doesn't  Nolan  try  it,  I  wonder  ?  "  said  this  gentleman  in 
a  dissatisfied  tjne.  "  He's  as  likely  a  mark  for  a  bullet  as  ;any 
of  us  ;  a  tall  and  proper  fellow  like  that." 

"  Ah  !  why  ?"  retorts  No.  i,  with  a  satirical  laugh.  "  He  if 
the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  is  a  widow.' 


374  A    VISIT  AND   A    GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

11  He  has  married  a  wife,  and  therefore  cannot  come,"  says 
No.  3. 

"  All  wrong,  you  fellows,"  cuts  in  a  fourth  voice  ;  "  he  is 
going — I  happen  to  know.  He  has  been  offered  the  captaincy 
in  his  old  regiment,  vice  Wendall,  shot,  and  has  accepted.  He 
has  kept  it  quiet — the  fact  is  three  days  old  ;  but  I  can't  stand 
by  and  hear  you  old  women  abuse  him.  You  envy  him  natu- 
rally— I  do  myself.  Lovely  girl,  that  wife.  He  starts  in  two 
days.  As  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived,  is  Nolan." 

"  And  as  plucky,"  supplements  another;  "he  was  out  ihe 
first  year,  as  you  know.  We  served  together.  Got  a  bullet  in 
the  lung,  and  came  home  invalided.  There's  fight  enough  in 
Nolan — being  an  Irishman,  that  is  understood.  But  as  to  his 
going  out,  by  George,  if  I  were  in  his  place  I  would  think  twice 
before  I  left  a  wife  like  that,  only  married  yesterday,  or  there- 
about. There's  the  "Soldaten  Lieder  " — let's  go  back.  This  is  a 
great  night ;  Mrs.  Ten  Eyck  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty." 

They  go  ;  but  Sydney,  long  after  their  voices  cease,  sits  frigid. 
Is  she  in  a  dream  ?  Lewis  going  to  join  the  army,  without  a  word 
to  her — going  in  two  days  !  She  sits  for  a  while  so  stunned  that 
movement  or  thought  is  impossible.  Then  she  rises  slowly  and 
stiffly,  feeling  chilled  to  the  heart  by  the  frosty  night  wind,  and 
parts  the  curtains  and  step  out.  Almost  the  first  person  she 
sees  is  her  husband,  talking  to  one  or  two  other  men. 

"Then  you're  really  going  back,  Nolan  ?  "  one  says  ;  "it  is 
an  accomplished  fact  ?  Well,  we  need  such  men  as  you,  and 
we  all  must  make  sacrifices  at  our  country's  call." 

"  Day  after  tc-morrow,  is  it  ?  "  asks  a  second,  and  Nolan 
nods  a  little  impatiently,  his  eyes  wandering  about  in  search 
of  some  one. 

Sydney  comes  forward.  The  color  has  left  her  face — it  is 
white  as  her  dress  ;  her  eyes  look  blank  and  bewildered  with 
sudden  terror.  The  men  stare  at  her — her  husband  with  an 
alarmed  look  is  instantly  at  her  side. 

"  Sydney,  you  are  ill  ! '' 

"Yes — no,"  she  answers,  incoherently,  grasping  his  arm. 
"  Oh  !  Lewis,  take  me  home." 

"  Sit  down  for  a  moment,"  he  says. 

He  knows  she  has  heard  what  he  meant  to  break  to  her  him- 
self. She  obeys  and  he  leaves  her,  but  he  is  back  directly  with  a 
glass  of  iced  champagne. 

"  Drink  this." 

She  obeys  once  more,  looking  at  hin  with  imploring  eyes. 


"HEARTS  BREAK  AS    THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN*        375 

"  Will  you  not  take  me  home,  Lewis  ?  My  head  aches  and 
burns — this  glare  and  music  is  torture.  Take  me  home  at 
once." 

"  Certainly,  my  dearest ;  but  will  you  not  wait  for " 

"  No,  no — I  will  wait  for  nothing.  Take  me  home  at  once 
— at  once  ! " 

But  "  at  once  "  is  not  so  easy.  Mr.  Nolan  must  see  his  hostess, 
and  explain  that  his  wife  has  been  taken  suddenly  ill.  Then  an- 
other half  hour  passes  before  their  carriage  can  come  into  line 
and  she  is  safely  seated  in  it,  her  head  on  Lewis'  shoulder,  his 
arm  holding  her  to  him,  and  scarcely  a  word  interchanged  the 
whole  way. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  NO    SUN    GOES   DOWN    BUT  THAT   SOME    HEART  DOES    BREAK." 

T  is  the  supreme  hour  of  his  life — he  feels  that.  He 
has  not  meant  that  a  denouement  shall  come  in  this 
way  ;  he  has  intended  to  break  to  her  the  news  of  his 
departure  ;  andwhen  far  away  write  to  her  the  story  he 
knows  he  must  tell  now.  All  the  way  home  he  is  nerving  him- 
self for  the  ordeal — the  self-repression,  the  self-command,  that 
have  been  the  study  of  his  life  for  the  past  five  years  stand  him 
in  good  stead  now.  Except  that  the  face  on  which  the  lamps 
shine  is  deadly  pale,  there  is  no  change.  The  eyes  he  fixes  on 
his  wife  are  dark  with  unutterable  sadness  and  compassion. 
For  her,  she  trembles  and  clings  to  him,  and  when  they  reach 
her  own  room,  to  which  he  leads  her,  she  clasps  her  hands  and 
speaks  for  the  first  time. 

"  Lewis,  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  Sit  down,  Sydney,"  he  says  gently,  and  places  her  in  a 
chair.  "  Is  what  true,  my  wife  ?  " 

"  That  you  are  about  to  rejoin  your  regiment — that  you  go 
the  day  after  to-morrow  ?  I  heard  it  all  at  the  ball." 

She  is  thinking  of  this  strange  fact  alone,  that  she  is  about  to 
lose  him,  and  that  he  has  never  told  her.  It  pierces  her  heart 
like  a  knife — it  has  driven  all  thought  of  Dolly  De  Courcy  and 
her  suggestion  out  of  her  mind. 

"  It  is  quite  true." 


376      "HEARTS  BREAK  AS    THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN.1 

"  And  you  never  told  me  !  " 

The  passionate  reproach  of  the  eyes  that  look  at  him — those 
gentle  blue  eyes  that  never  had  for  him  other  than  infinite  ten- 
derness— move  him  to  the  soul. 

"  My  darling,  I  meant  to  explain — I  meant  to  have  told  you 
to-morrow.  You  know  I  have  often  spoken  of  this  to  you  since 
our  marriage.  After  all,  it  is  only  my  duty.  You  would  not 
listen,  and  I — Heaven  help  me  ! — was  not  strong  enough  to 
break  from  the  gentle  arms  that  held  me  back — might  nevre 
have  broken  but  for  what  passed  between  us  the  other  night. 

"The  other  night!"  She  repeats,  in  vague  wonder.  Then 
recollection  flashes  upon  her,  and  her  eyes  dilate  incredulously. 
"  Lewis,"  she  exclaims,  "  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  story 
I  told  you  the  other  night  has  forced  you  to  do  this?" 

"  I  am  only  doing  my  duty,  Sydney.  Still,  but  for  that  story 
my  duty  might  never  have  been  done." 

She  gazes  art  him  silently,  seemingly  lost  in  wonder  and  in- 
credulity. 

"  Did  you  feel  the  fact  of  my  former  engagement  so  deeply, 
then  ?  Because  I  was  once  before  on  the  verge  of  marriage 
you  leave  me  to  rejoin  the  army  ?  Oh!  Lewis,  pardon  me, 
but  I  cannot  believe  this." 

"  That  was  the  cause,  but  not  as  you  think.  Sydney,  love,  do 
you  remember,  in  telling  me  of  your  previous  engagement  be- 
fore our  marriage,  you  never  told  me  the  man's  name?  Had 
you  done  so,"  he  stops  a  moment,  "  we  would  never  have  been 
man  and  wife." 

She  sits  quite  still,  her  hands  clasped,  her  dilated  eyes,  look- 
ing almost  black  with  vague  terror,  fixed  on  his  face. 

"  D<s»  you  recall,"  he  goes  on,  "  that  moonlight  January  night 
when  we  walked  home  together,  and  I  told  you  there  was  a 
secret  in  my  life,  that  if  told  might  separate  us  forever  ?  Your 
answer  was,  that  with  my  past  life  you  had  nothing  to  do — you 
only  required  perfect  truth  and  fidelity  for  the  future.  Oh  ! 
love,  why  did  you  not  bid  me  speak  ?  I  would  have  told  you 
then,  when  it  was  not  yet  too  late,  the  miserable  story  I  must 
tell  you  to-night.  Truth  and  fidelity  were  all  you  asked  in  your 
noble  trust  and  generosity,  and  these  I  could  give  yo  »  without 
stint  or  measure.  If  I  had  ever  heard  the  name  of  Bertie 
Vaughan " 

He  shudders  as  he  says  it,  and  look?  ff,  and  all  at  once  there 
flashes  back  upon  he;  bewildered  mind  Jie  memory  of  the  after- 
noon's visit,  and  the  dark  hints  dropped  by  the  actress 


"HEARTS  BREAK  AS   THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN"        377 

"  Lewis,"  she  suddenly  exclaims,  "  a  very  strange  person 
came  to  see  me  this  afternoon — I  meant  to  tell  you,  and  forgot 
— and  she  said  very  strange  things.  The  person  was  the  ac« 
tress  we  saw  the  other  night — Dolly  De  Courcy — and  the  things 
she  said  were  about  you  and  Bertie  Vaughan." 

"  Dolly  De  Courcy  ! "  he  repeats,  in  wonder.  "  What  was 
it  she  said  ?  " 

"She  told  me  to  ask  you" — Sydney  puts  her  hand  to  her 
head  in  a  dazed  way,  trying  to  recall — "how  you  last  parted 
from  Bertie  Vaughan." 

He  stood  stricken  speechless,  it  would  seem,  by  her  words. 

"  How,  in  Heaven's  name,  does  she  know  ?  "  he  says,  speak- 
ing as  if  to  himself.  "Was  she  there,  and  has  she  all  this  time 
kept  the  secret  ?  Surely  not — she  never  kept  a  secret  in  her 
life — she  would  be  the  first  to  tell.  It  must  be  that  she  only 
suspects.  But  to  come  here — to  force  herself  upon  you  ! " 

His  face  flushes  angrily,  his  eyes  indignantly  flash. 

"She  came  in  search  of  you,  Lewis,"  his  wife  interposes,  in 
a  broken  voice.  "  She  said  she  had  a  claim  upon  you,  and  I 
saw  her  in  your  stead.  I  had  no  wish  to  pry  into  any  secret  of 
your  life,  Lewis." 

Her  voice  breaks  altogether  for  a  moment  in  a  great  sob. 
Then  she  starts  to  her  feet,  and  holds  out  both  hands  piteously. 

"  Lewis,  what  is  this  ?  "  she  cries.  "  I  feel  as  if  my  heart 
were  breaking  ;  I  am  afraid  of — I  don't  know  what.  Something 
stands  between  us,  and  keeps  me  from  you.  If  you  ever  loved 
me,  tell  me  it  is  no  crime  of  yours  that  is  parting  us  now.  One 
word  of  denial  will  be  enough ;  1  will  believe  you,  though  all 
the  world  stood  up  and  accused  you  with  one  voice." 

She  sees  the  strong  frame  quiver  from  head  to  foot ;  she  sets 
the  desperate  gesture  with  which  he  stops  her. 

"Cease!"  he  says,  hoarsely.  "I  cannot  bear  it;  for  it  is  a 
crime  that  stands  between  us — one  that  should  have  held  us 
asunder  forever." 

She  drops  back  into  her  chair,  and  puts  one  trembling  hand 
over  her  eyes.  And  Lewis  Nolan,  leaning  against  the  mantel, 
regains  his  wonderful  self-restraint  after  a  moment,  and  rapidly 
and  concisely  begins  the  dark  recoid  he  has  to  tell. 

"  I  knew  Dolly  De  Courcy.  'Tis  ten  years  ago  now,  when  I 
was  a  lad  of  eighteen,  that  I  knew  her  first.  She  was  an  actress 
at  the  time,  and  her  black  eyes  and  coquettish  ways  captured 
my  romantic  boyish  fancy  at  sight.  In  those  days  I  was  an  in- 
reterate  play -goer.  Uncle  Grift's  good  nature  kept  me  always 


37s         "HEARTS  BREAK  AS    THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN." 

supplied  with  sufficient  money  for  that  dissipation.  My  mother 
remonstrated  about  my  late  hours  and  doubtful  associates  ;  but 
I  was  absolutely  self-willed  in  those  days,  had  ideas  about  joining 
the  theatrical  profession  myself,  and  went  on  in  my  own  way. 
Dolly  and  I  soon  became  warm  friends  —  lovers,  perhaps,  I 
should  say  —  for  she  was  an  arrant  little  flirt  even  then,  and  will- 
ing to  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent.  We  were  engaged,  after 
an  absurd  boy-and-girl  fashion,  when  I  was  twenty.  I  left  off 
play-going,  began  to  work  hard,  save  money,  and  look  forward 
to  marriage  and  house-keeping.  It  was  all  profoundest  earnest 
and  good  faith  on  my  part.  The  girl  had  bewitched  me.  I  be- 
lieved her  to  be  everything  that  was  good,  and  warm-hearted, 
and  honorable  ;  and  in  those  days  I  believe  she  was  an  honest 
girl,  and  really  fond  of  the  infatuated  young  simpleton  who  ran 
after  her  about  New  York,  and  was  furiously  jealous  of  every 
man  who  looked  at  her  —  of  her  stage  lovers,  and  the  fellows 
about  the  theatre  generally.  She  laughed  at  my  jealousy,  ridi- 
culed my  rages,  for  in  those  days  I  had  a  furious  temper,  quite 
uncurbed.  She  would  not  marry  me.  made  game  of  my  poeti- 
cal ideas  of  love  in  a  cottage,  and  I  believe  in  her  heart  was 
tired  of  my  too  exacting  devotion. 

"  My  mother  and  sister  knew  very  little  of  all  this  —  they 
certainly  were  aware  that  I  had  formed  some  absurd  attach- 
ment for  an  actress,  but  I  was  moody  and  sullen  about  it  all. 
M_y  jealous  fears  were  always  up  in  arms  ;  it  was  a  wretched 
time  for  myself,  and  a  supremely  wretched  one  for  all  the 
family. 

"  It  was  about  this  time  that  Dolly  went  to  Wychcliffe.  It 
was  not  the  first  occasion  she  had  gone  out  of  New  York,  but 
I  seemed  to  feel  her  absence  more  deeply  this  time  than  ever 
before.  It  is  of  no  use  looking  back  now,  and  wondering  at 
the  infatuation  that  chained  me  to  such  a  woman  —  of  no  use 
thinking  how  supremely  wretched  rny  life  would  have  been  if 
she  had  taken  me  at  my  word  and  married  me.  I  urged  her 
to,  before  she  went  to  Wychcliffe,  and  she  actually  promised  to 
do  so  as  soon  as  she  returned,  and  I  believe  meant  to  keep  her 


"  In  the  company  was  a  man  with  whom  I  occasionally  cor- 
responded, and  who  kept  a  watchful  eye  upon  my  fickle 
fiancee.  It  was  from  him  I  first  heard  of  her  new  lover, 
Bertie  Vaughan.  He  haunted  her  like  her  shadow,  it  appeared  j 
his  sudden  devotion  was  the  laughter  of  the  whole  company. 
Dolly,  it  seemed,  was  deeply  smitten,  too  ;  they  were  almost 


"HEARTS  3REAK   4S    THE  SUN  GOES  QOWN."        .379 

inseparable.  Had  I  not  better  come  on  and  look  after  my 
property?  wrote  my  friend.  I  could  not  go  on,  but  I  wrote 
fine,  furious  letters  to  Dolly,  which  Dolly  did  not  answer. 
Poor  soul !  flirtation  was  more  in  her  line  than  letter-writing. 
Finally  an  epistle  did  come.  'Would  I  break  off?  She  was 
tired  of  being  scolded ;  I  was  too  cross  and  hateful  for  any- 
thing. Please  not  to  trouble  her  with  any  more  jealous  letters, 
and  she  would  give  me  back  my  ring  when  she  returned  to 
New  York." 

"  I  could  laugh  now,  even  in  all  the  bitterness  of  despair, 
as  I  look  back  and  recall  the  effects  this  letter  had  upon  me. 
Insane  as  I  was,  fool  as  I  was,  I  still  kept  my  rage  to  myself, 
but  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  would  go  to  Wychclirte,  I 
would  see  this  man,  this  young  aristocrat  who  was  fooling 
Dolly,  and  force  him  to  hear  reason,  if  I  could  not  force  her. 
1  knew  he  was  fooling  her,  for  my  actor  acquaintance  had 
informed  me  that  he  was  engaged  to  a  young  lady  residing  in 
the  town,  the  only  daughter  of  a  very  rich  man,  and,  in  fact, 
about  to  be  married  to  her.  Not  once  was  your  name  men- 
tioned— it  was  always  as  a  young  lady  of  Wychcliflfe  you  were 
spoken  of;  his  name  alone,  Bertie  Vaughan,  J  knew. 

"  Fortune  seemed  to  favor  me.  While  1  was  meditating 
upon  some  plan  of  making  my  way  to  Wychcliffe,  Mr.  Graham, 
on  the  point  of  starring  for  Minnesota  upon  some  important 
business,  was  taken  very  ill.  Some  one  must  go  in  his  place. 
He  had  limitless  confidence  in  my  integrity  and  business 
capabilities,  and  I  was  to  go  in  his  stead.  It  was  the  very 
opportunity  I  was  seeking.  I  left  home  ostensibly  to  start 
West,  but  in  reality  to  go  first  to  Wychcliffe,  force  Vaughan 
to  give  up  his  pretensions,  whatever  they  were,  to  Dolly,  by 
fair  means  or  foul. 

"  1  reached  Wychcliffe  in  the  middle  of  a  whirling  snow- 
storm, and  the  first  news  I  heard  was  that  the  theatre  people, 
Dolly  included,  had  left  the  town  a  whole  week  before.  This 
was  startling  intelligence,  and  I  half-resolved  to  go  back  to 
New  York,  seek  out  Dolly,  and  reproach  her  with  her  vile 
infidelity.  I  heard,  too,  without  asking  any  questions,  that  a 
fashionable  marriage  was  to  take  place  next  day,  and  that  the 
name  of  the  bridegroom  was  Vaughan,  also  that  Vaughan  had 
been  courting  the  actress  all  the  while  he  was  courting  the 
heiress,  and  liked  the  actress  best. 

••  Men  laughed,  and  cracked  jokes  about  it  at  the  hotel  bar, 
while  I  listened,  devoured  with  silent  jealousy  and  rage.  Even 


380         "A  FOND  KISStAND    THEN  WE   SEVER." 

then  your  name  was  not  mentioned — if  it  was,  I  paid  no 
attention  to  it ;  my  only  thoughts  were  of  him  who  had  dared 
to  supplant  me.  Still  listening,  I  learned  that  he  was  stopping 
at  this  very  house,  and  would  be  along  about  half-past  ten. 
That  determined  me.  I  would  wait  and  meet  him,  as  I  hac* 
come  so  far  to  do  it ;  I  would  force  him,  if  he  ever  met  Doll) 
again,  to  drop  her  acquaintance  ;  for  an  engaged  flirt,  as  1 
knew,  was  ready  to  prove  a  married  flirt.  I  would  force  this 
promise  from  him,  then  take  the  night  train  for  New  York, 
seek  out  Dolly  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  have  a  final 
settlement  with  her  before  going  to  Minnesota  for  an  indefinite 
time.  I  had  no  other  thought  but  that — I  say  it  before 
Heaven. 

"  I  started  about  half-past  nine,  ostensibly  to  take  the  train 
back  to  New  York,  in  reality  to  take  the  path  by  which  I  had 
heard  Vaughan  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  meet  him  somewhere 
on  the  way.  You  may  remember  that  night.  The  snow-storm 
had  ceased,  the  moon  and  stars  were  shining  on  the  white,  glis- 
tening ground  ;  it  was  mild  and  windless  as  I  walked  along  the 
steep  path  above  the  shore.  The  talk  of  the  men  about  this 
man  I  was  going  to  meet  and  Dolly,  had  thrown  me  into  one  of 
my  black,  silent  rages  ;  their  laughter  implied  more  than  their 
words,  and  had  maddened  me.  I  took  my  stand  at  what  I 
judged  to  be  about  half-way,  and  leaning  against  a  large  rock, 
looked  out  at  the  sea  creeping  up  so  far  below,  and  waited." 

Lewis  Nolan  pauses.  In  a  low,  suppressed  voice,  full  of 
intensest  feeling,  he  has  narrated  all  this.  In  her  chair,  her  eyes 
upon  him,  her  face  stony — his  wife  listens.  But  now  she  starts 
up,  and  puts  out  both  arms  blindly. 

"  Lewis  ! "  she  cries,  in  a  voice  that  pierces  his  very  soul, 
"  don't  tell  me  that  it  was  you  who  killed  Bertie  Vaughan  ! " 

"  God  help  me  !  God  forgive  me  !  "  he  answers  in  a  stifled 
voice — "  it  was  I !  " 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

"A    FOND    KISS,  AND    THEN    WE    SEVER." 

HE  stands,  almost  paralyzed,  looking  at  him,  her  arms 
held  out  in  that  blind  agony,  her  eyes  fixed  and  dark 
with  horror.  He  thinks  she  is  going  to  faint,  and  takes 
a  step  towards  her ;  but  as  he  attempts  to  touch  her,  she 


"A  FOND  KISS,  AND  THEN  WE   SEVER."  381 

shrinks  suddenly  back.  It  is  the  slightest  of  movements,  but  it 
holds  him  from  her,  as  a  wall.  He  turns  abruptly  and  resumes  his 
former  place.  She  drops  back  into  her  chair,  lays  her  white  face 
on  the  table  beside  her,  and  neither  speaks  nor  moves  again. 

"Shall  1  finish?''  he  huskily  says,  after  a  moment,  and  as 
there  is  no  reply,  he  goes  on  :  "I  waited  for  him  there.  1 
had  not  long  to  wait.  Presently  he  came  along  in  the  moon- 
light whistling  as  he  came,  as  if  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  world 
• — '.r»is  man  who  was  betraying  two  women.  I  knew  him  in- 
stantly in  the  clear  moonlight — I  heard  him  described  often 
enough  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  pass  the  place  where  I  stood, 
I  started  out  into  the  light,  and  said  : 

"Stay!" 

"  He  stopped  at  once,  ceased  his  whistling,  and  looked  at 
me,  a  little  startled,  I  could  see,  but  he  spoke  coolly  enough. 

"  '  Well,'  he  said,  '  who  are  you  ? ' 

"  '  You  are  Bertie  Vaughan  ! '  was  my  answer. 

"  '  And  who  the  devil  are  you  that  makes  so  free  with  my 
name  ?  Get  out  of  my  way  and  let  me  pass.' 

"  'Not  just  yet,'  I  said;  'I  have  a  little  account  to  settle 
with  you,  Mr.  Bertie  Vaughan,  before  we  part,  and  I  have  come 
all  the  way  from  New  York  to  settle  it.' 

"  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  he  asked,  curiously. 

"  I  am  Lewis  Nolan,  the  man  to  whom  Dolly  De  Courcy  is 
engaged,  and  I  demand  of  you  to  resign  all  acquaintance  with 
her  from  this  moment.' 

He  laughed. 

"  '  So,'  he  said,  '  you're  the  fellow  Dolly's  to  marry.  Well, 
when  1  am  ready  to  give  her  up  she  may  marry  you,  you  an- 
dcrstand  ?  Now  move  aside.' 

"  There  was  something  so  insufferably  insulting  and  sneering 
in  his  tone  and  laugh  that  I  lost  the  last  remnant  of  self-con- 
trol. I  sprang  at  his  throat ;  he  darted  back,  and  lifting  a  cane 
he  carried,  he  broke  it  across  my  shoulders.  Then  we  grap- 
pled, and  the  struggle  began.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  as  we 
held  each  other  there  in  that  narrow  path.  At  all  times  I  must 
have  been  the  stronger  of  the  two  ;  now,  beside  myself  with 
fury,  he  was  no  more  match  for  me  than  a  child.  Uncon- 
sciously we  had  wrestled  near  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  all  at 
once  i  freed  myself  and  threw  him  from  me  with  all  my  might. 
I  threw  him  from  me — as  Heaven  hears  me,  I  had  no  thought 
of  throwing  him  over,  no  thought  of  the  precipice  at  all. 

"  There  was  a  cry  that  has  rung  in  my  ears  ever  since,  a  cry 


382         "A  FOND  KISS,  AND    THEN  ^VE  SEVER." 

of  horror  and  despair  that  I  will  hear  when  I  am  dying,  a  glimpse 
of  a  white,  agonized  face,  and  then " 

He  breaks  off.  There  is  agony  in  his  own  face,  agony  in  his 
voice,  great  drops  on  his  forehead,  and  the  hand  that  hangs  by 
his  side  is  clenched.  The  picture  is  before  him  ;  if  he  would,  he 
could  not  keep  back  the  words  that  paint  it.  It  has  lain  locked 
in  his  bosom  so  long — he  has  seen  that  face,  heard  that  death-cry 
so  often,  asleep  and  awake,  all  these  years,  that,  now  the  hour 
has  come,  he  must  speak  all  or  nothing.  For  his  wife,  she  neither 
gives  word  nor  sign,  and  yet  he  knows  she  hears  all. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  in  a  hurried,  breathless  sort  of  voice,  and 
looking  up  again,  "  I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there — para- 
lyzed by  the  deed  I  had  done.  I  knew  the  depth  of  that  preci- 
pice— I  had  seen  the  jagged  bed  of  rocks,  like  black  spikes, 
projecting  in  the  moonlight  eighty  feet  below.  I  knew  what  I 
would  see  if  I  looked  over.  And  I  could  not  look  over.  Some- 
thing of  the  horror  of  the  awful  sight  that  would  meet  me,  held 
me  back.  I  had  done  a  murder — that  thought  filled  me,  body 
and  soul.  There  was  neither  word  nor  cry,  and  turning  sudden- 
ly, without  one  backward  look  I  walked  away. 

"  Perhaps,  in  reality,  I  had  not  stood  there  five  seconds — five 
hours  could  not  have  seemed  longer.  Like  a  man  who  walks  in 
his  sleep,  hardly  conscious  of  what  1  did,  or  where  I  went,  I  hur- 
ried on  ;  I  neither  feared  nor  cared  for  detection  ;  I  never  thought 
of  it,  in  fact,  I  had  but  one  feeling — the  brand  of  Cain  was  upon 
me  for  all  time — I  had  slain  my  brother.  I  walked  all  night.  I 
was  too  late  for  any  train  back  ;  but  early  in  the  morning  I  found 
myself,  foot-sore  and  weary,  at  another  town  some  eighteen  miles 
from  Wychcliffe,  and  made  inquiries  of  the  men  I  met  going  to 
work.  A  train  started  at  seven  ;  I  found  it,  got  on  board,  re- 
turned to  New  York,  breakfasted,  and  in  a  few  hours  was  speed- 
ing along  westward  by  express. 

"  The  first  intense  horror  had  by  this  time  faded  from  my 
mind  ;  I  saw  now  how  insanely  i  had  acted  ;  I  was  not  guilty  c  f 
murder — I  had  no  thought  of  taking  his  life.  That  I  had  thrown 
him  over  the  cliff,  instead  of  on  the  ground,  was  purely  acci- 
dental. What  I  should  have  done  was  to  have  found  a  path 
down  to  the  beach,  and  seen  if  he  were  really  killed.  But  I 
shuddered  as  I  thought  it — no,  I  could  not  have  looked  upon 
that.  And  if  I  gave  myself  up  for  the  deed  I  had  done,  who 
was  to  prove  it  was  not  premeditated  ?  He  was  my  rival  :  I 
had  deliberately  come  to  Wychcliffe  in  search  of  him,  waylaid 
and  assaulted  him — the  circumstantial  evidence  would  be  against 


"A  FOND  KISS,  AND    THEN  WE  SEVER."         383 

me,  and  crushing.  It  would  break  my  mother's  heart,  and  kill 
my  sister.  Besides,  I  thought,  with  sullen  doggedness,  he  had 
deserved  his  fate  ;  he  was  a  scoundrel — why  should  I  "suffer  for 
what  was  an  accident  after  all  ?  I  would  think  no  more  about 
it,  it  was  done,  and  could  not  be  undone.  It  was  an  accident, 
and  he  had  brought  it  on  himself — I  kept  repeating  that  over 
and  over  again. 

"  But  it  would  not  do — it  never  has  done — judge  and  jury  have 
never  tried  me  ;  but  my  own  conscience  has,  and  I  stand  con- 
demned. It  has  spoiled  my  life,  changed  my  nature — a  nature 
better  changed,  perhaps,  and  1  have  held  myself  and  my  passions 
and  my  temper,  with  tue  higher  help,  for  which  I  have  prayed, 
better,  I  trust,  in  hand.  I  have  suffered  for  what  I  have  done, 
I  have  repented.  Heaven  knows  there  has  been  no  time  since 
when  I  would  not  have  given  my  own  life  to  have  brought  his 
back.  When  I  pleaded  for  Mrs.  Harland,  I  saw  a  parallel  in 
our  two  cases,  and  it  was  for  myself  I  pleaded  ;  when  she  was 
sentenced,  as  still  guilty,  in  that  sentence  I  read  my  own  con- 
demnation. 

"  I  remained  in  Minnesota  nearly  seven  months — so  busy  I 
scarcely  had  time  to  glance  even  at  the  daily  papers.  Once  or 
twice  I  saw  a  brief  account  of  the  murder  or  accident,  no  one 
seemed  able  to  determine  which  ;  no  one  was  suspected,  no 
one  arrested,  all  was  well.  If  any  one  had  been,  of  course  there 
would  be  no  alternative  but  to  go  at  once  and  speak  out.  But 
no  one  was,  and  when  I  returned  to  New  York  the  whole  mat- 
ter was  a  thing  of  the  past.  I  went  back  to  the  office  and  re- 
sumed my  old  routine,  with  a  secret,  like  Eugene  Aram's,  in  my 
heart.  And  yet  knowing  that  I  had  never  meant  to  kill,  that  I 
would  have  shrunk  appalled,  even  in  the  hour  of  my  fiercest 
passion,  from  the  thought,  I  could  feel  altogether  guilty,  alto- 
gether unhappy.  And  as  years  went  on,  and  as  1  strove  to 
atone  by  a  better  life,  by  fidelity  to  all  duties,  as  ambitious 
thoughts  and  hopes  absorbed  me.  I  gradually  grew — not  to  for- 
get— that  was  impossible,  but  to  look  back  only  with  remorseful 
sorrow  to  that  dark  night  of  my  life,  and  look  humbly  for  par- 
Uon  to  Him  who  has  said,  '  Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet  they 
shall  become  white  as  wooh' 

"  Dolly  De  Courcy  I  never  saw  again — not^once — until  that 
night  last  week  when  I  saw  her  on  the  stage,  and  we  mutually 
recognized  each  other.  It  brought  back  so  vividly  all  that  was 
past  and  gone,  all  my  wrong-doing,  that  it  cost  me  an  effort  to 
sit  the  play  out.  From  that  night  my  insane  infatuation  for  her 


384        "A  FOND  KISS,  AND    THEN  WE  SEVER." 

died  a  natural  death  ;  it  seemed  as  if  my  horror  of  my  own  acl 
had  killed  it.  I  could  not  think  of  her  without  a  feeling  of  re- 
pulsion. I  felt  it  unjustly,  no  doubt,  as  I  looked  at  her  then. 
How  she  comes  to  know  anything  about  it  is  a  mystery  to  me. 
I  do  not  believe  she  really  does  know.  She  may  suspect, 
knowing  my  jealousy — she  can  know  nothing  beyond. 

"  I  had  ceased  to  care  for  her — I  cared  for  no  one  else.  T 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  my  own  satisfaction,  never  to  marry 
Law  should  be  my  love,  ambition  my  bride,  honors  my  children 
the  praise  of  men  my  home.  A  woman,  and  my  own  madness. 
had  spoiled  my  life,  no  other  should  ever  come  into  it; 
and  then,  at  the  height  of  all  these  fine  resolves,  my  wife,  my 
love,  I  met  you.  I  met  you  by  chance — if  anything  in  this 
world  does  happen  by  chance— and  all  melted  before  your  blue 
eyes  and  radiant  smile,  as  snow  before  the  sun.  Did  I  fall  ii 
love  with  you,  as  I  saw  you  standing,  tall  and  graceful,  and  fail 
as  a  lily,  before  Von  Ette's  picture?  I  don't  know.  I  know 
that  the  words  you  spoke  stabbed  me  like  a  knife — haunted  me 
with  incessant  pain  until  I  sat  beside  you  in  Mrs.  Graham's 
home,  and  tried  to  bring  you  to  my  way  of  thinking.  You  were 
remembering  Bertie  Vaughan.  Ah,  Heaven  !  so  was  I,  and 
neither  knew  it.  Your  face  was  with  me  incessantly — came 
between  me  and  my  books,  and  lit  the  dingy  office  with  its 
sweet  memory.  You  were  unlike  any  one  I  had  ever  known — 
you  were  my  ideal  woman,  half-angelic,  half-womanly,  and — 
I  lost  my  head  again.  I  had  no  hope  of  ever  winning  you,  no, 
not  the  faintest.  I  saw  you  surrounded  by  such  suitors  as  Van 
Cuyler,  admired  wherever  you  went,  rich,  beautiful,  well-born. 
What  was  I — what  had  I — that  I  should  presumptuously  hope 
for  anything  beyond  a  kind  smile,  a  friendly  word  ?  Your 
choice  surprised  every  one — my  wife,  it  surprised  no  one  more 
than  it  did  myself.  I  struggled  with  my  ever-growing  insanity, 
as  I  called  it,  more  insane  in  a  different  way  even  than  the  first, 
and  thought  I  had  strength  of  will  sufficient  to  master  it.  But 
I  found  it  was  every  day  mastering  me — that  each  time  I  saw 
you  I  grew  more  helplessly  powerless  and  enslaved,  that  my 
only  hope  was  in  flight.  I  had  long  meditated  this  trip  to  Cali- 
fornia ;  t'le  chances  were  better  there,  success  more  rapid  and 
assured — now  seemed  my  time.  I  was  telling  all  to  Lucy  that 
night,  my  love  and  my  struggles  ;  you  came  and — you  know 
the  rest.  It  was  as  if  an  angel  had  stooped  to  love  as  mortals 
love,  and  I  could  only  wonder  at  the  great  joy  that  had  come 
to  me  and  accept. 


"A  FOND  A'SSS,  AND  THEN   WE  SEVER."  385 

"The  only  thought  that  marred  my  happiness  was  the 
thought  that  I  ought  to  tell  you  all,  to  lay  bare  my  secret,  and 
let  you  say  whether  it  was  sufficient  to  hold  us  asunder  forever. 
I  tried  one  night  and  you  stopped  me.  With  matchless  confi- 
dence and  generosity,  you  said  that  with  my  past  life  you  had 
nothing  to  do,  that  you  refused  to  listen,  that  love  and  fidelity 
were  all  you  asked,  and  I  was  weak,  and  grasped  at  m.y  reprieve 
as  a  sentenced  man,  never  dreaming  of  the  terrible  truth. 

"You  had  once  lived  in  WychclirTe,  you  had  once  before 
been  engaged  to  be  married,  and  the  man  had  died — that  told 
little  or  nothing.  The  man's  name  was  never  mentioned  between 
us — but  why  go  on  ?  You  will  believe  me  when  I  say,  had  I 
known  that  day  when  we  met  in  the  studio  what  I  know  now 
we  should  never  have  met  again  unless  I  came  to  you  and  con- 
fessed the  truth.  Even  had  1  loved  you,  I  would  have  dreaded 
such  a  marriage  as  much  as  you  could  have  done,  but  there  is 
a  retribution  in  these  things  that  works  its  own  way,  and  we 
are  husband  and  wife,  and  five  of  the  happiest  months  that  ever 
mortal  man  enjoyed  have  been  mine.  All  the  parting  and  the 
expiation  of  the  future  can  never  dim  the  bliss  of  their  memory. 
I  may  be  most  miserable,  but  I  have  been  most  happy." 

His  voice,  low  and  husky,  and  hurried  through  it  all,  breaks, 
and  he  bows  his  forehead  on  the  arm  resting  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  there  is  silence. 

"  The  blow  thzfc  killed  Bertie  Vaughan  killed  also  your  father 
you  have  told  me,"  he  resumes.  "I  thought  that  I  had  suf- 
fered in  the  past,  but  I  never  knew  what  suffering  was  until 
that  night  when  you  sat  on  my  knee,  your  head  on  my  shoulder, 
and  innocently  told  me  your  story.  I  sat  that  night  long  after 
you  were  asleep,  love,  and  thought  of  what  I  should  do.  That 
we  must  part  was  certain,  that  you  must  know  the  truth  was  cer- 
tain, and  what  I  have  thought  of  long,  I  did  at  last.  I  meant 
to  have  told  you  then,  and  once  fairly  away  to  write  you  all, 
It  seemed  to  me  I  could  never  look  in  your  face  and  break 
your  heart.  But  even  that  has  been  forced  upon  me  ;  it  is  part 
of  my  punishment,  and  a  very  hard  one  to  bear." 

Once  more  silence — she  never  moved  nor  looked  up. 

"  You  bound  yourself  by  a  pronv  »e  beside  your  father's 
death-bed,"  Lewis  Nolan  goes  on,  "to  bring  to  justice  the  man 
who  caused  his  adopted  son's  death.  If  you  feel  that  promise 
must  be  kept " 

She  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  him,  such  agony  in  her  fat  5 
as  it  breaks  his  heart  to  see. 

'7 


386     "AS   ONE   WHOM  HIS  MOTHER    COMFORTETff" 

"Oh,  forgive  me  !"  he  cries,  "  I  know  that  you  cannot,  my 
own  wife.  I  would  give  my  life  for  you,  and  I  have  crushed 
every  hope  out  of  yours  forever." 

She  drops  her  head  again,  and  once  more  there  is  silence. 
The  clock  on  the  mantel  strikes  three,  and  he  starts  up. 

"  I  am  going  at  once,"  he  says  hurriedly  ;  "  every  moment  I 
linger  is  an  added  torture.  There  are  some  papers  in  my  study 
that  I  must  attend  to  before  I  leave." 

He  goes  with  the  words. 

Papers,  letters,  lie  strewn  over  his  writing-table  ;  he  turns  up 
the  gas,  sits  down,  and  for  half-an-hour  is  busy.  He  fills  all 
his  pockets,  and  then  still  rapidly  exchanges  his  full-dress  evening 
suit  for  street  wear,  buttons  up  an  overcoat,  and  hat  in  hand, 
returns  to  his  wife's  room.  She  is  lying  as  he  left  her,  she  looks 
as  if  she  never  cared  to  lift  her  head  again. 

"Sydney,"  he  says,  "I  am  going.  Will  you  try  not  to  hate 
me  for  what  I  have  done  ?  You  have  always  been  generous — 
will  you  not  be  generous  enough  now  to  say  one  good-bye  ?  " 

She  rises  with  a  low,  sobbing  sort  of  cry,  and  flings  herself 
upon  his  breast.  Her  arms  cling  round  his  neck  as  though  they 
would  never  loosen  their  hold,  but  she  does  not,  cannot  speak 
a  word.  His  kisses  fall  on  her  lips  ;  her  bewildered  eyes  full  of 
an  agony  he  can  never  forget,  look  up  in  his  face. 

"  My  wife  !  my  wife  !  my  wife  !  " 

No  word  of  farewell  passes,  he  holds  her  strained  hard  for 
one  long  moment,  then  places  her  gently  back  in  her  chair  ;  her 
arms  fall  loosely,  her  eyes  follow  him,  her  white  lips  aie  incapa- 
ble of  littering  a  word.  She  sees  him  leave  the  room,  hears  him 
go  out  of  the  house,  hears  the  door  close  behind  him,  and  still 
sits  motionless,  speechless,  staring  straight  before  her,  blankly, 
at  the  open  door. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  AS    ONE    WHOM    HIS    MOTHER    COMFORTETH." 

|]UCY  NOLAN  was  ailing  that  night ;    those  dreadful 
spasms  of  racking  spine  complaint,  aggravated  by  her 
ceaseless   hacking  cough,  were  back   to  torture  her. 
All  night  long,  while  suffering  of  another  kind,  infinitely 
harder  to  bear  than  the  most  torturing  physical  pain,  was  rend- 


"AS   ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETff."     387 

ing  the  heart  of  Lewis  Nolan's  wife,  Lucy  lay  on  her  bed  and 
endured.  All  night  the  shaded  lamp  burned,  all  night  her 
mother  watched  unweariedly  by  her  bedside,  and  it  was  only 
when  the  chill  October  dawn  was  breaking  that  pain  ceased, 
and  sleep  came  to  the  patient  eyes.  Then  her  mother,  pale 
and  fagged,  stole  down-stairs  to  begin  her  duties  of  the  day. 
She  threw  open  the  shutters,  unbolted  the  door,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  crisp,  sparkling  coldness  of  the  early  morning. 
The  sharp,  fresh  air  was  like  an  exhilarating  draught.  She  lin- 
gered on  the  doorstep  watching  the  city  sky  flush  and  grow 
warm,  before  the  coming  of  the  red  round  sun.  Some  laborers 
went  straggling  by  to  their  work  ;  one  or  two  grimy  Dutch- 
women with  bags  passed,  raking,  as  they  went,  the  offal  of  the 
streets.  As  she  was  about  to  turn  into  the  house,  she  espied  a 
man  coming  toward  her,  with  something  oddly  familiar  about 
him. 

The  tall  figure  was  Lewis ;  but  surely  that  downcast  head 
and  lagging  walk  were  strangely  unlike  her  son's  erect  carriage 
and  quick,  firm  step.  And  yet  it  was  Lewis ;  she  saw  that  with 
wonder,  and  some  alarm.  He  raised  his  eyes  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  came  forward  at  a  rapid  pace. 

"  Lewis  ! "  she  exclaimed,  startled  strangely  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

Haggard,  bloodless,  with  something  of  wildness  in  the  stead- 
fast dark  eyes,  he  seemed  almost  like  an  apparition,  in  the  gray 
of  the  early  morning. 

"  Go  in,  mother,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

She  obeyed  him.  They  entered  the  little  parlor,  into  which 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun  were  shining. 

"  Speak  low,"  she  said,  remembering  even  in  her  anxiety  for 
one  child  the  illness  of  the  other.  "  Lucy  has  had  one  of  her 
bad  turns  all  night,  and  has  just  fallen  asleep.  What  is  it, 
Lewis?  Sydney " 

He  made  a  sudden,  almost  fierce  gesture,  that  stayed  the 
name  on  her  lips,  and  walked  to  the  window.  The  glow  of  the 
eastern  sky,  all  rose-red,  threw  a  fictitious  flush  upon  the  face 
that  seemed  to  have  grown  worn  and  aged  in  a  night. 

So,  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  his  eyes  on  that  lovely  ra- 
diance, he  spoke : 

"  Mother,"  he  said  abruptly,  "  I  am  going  away." 

"  My  son  !  " 

"  1  have  rejoined  my  old  company — I  leave  at  once — to-day. 
If  when,  the  war  ends  there  is  an  end  of  me  also,  well  and. 


388     "AS  ONE   WHOM  HIS  MOTHER   COMFORTETH." 

good  ;  it  will  be  far  the  easiest  way  of  sohing  all  difficulties. 
If  there  is  not,  I  will  start  at  once  for  Sacramento,  and  begin 
the  world  anew.  In  any  case  I  shall  not  return  to  New  York, 
so  that  this  is  my  leave-taking,  perhaps  for  ail  time." 

She  dropped  into  a  chair — speechless.  He  had  spoken  with 
recklessness,  bitterness ;  he  had  suffered  almost  beyond  endur- 
ance in  the  hours  that  had  intervened,  hours  spent  in  wander- 
ing through  the  lonely,  melancholy  streets.  But  now,  at  the 
exceeding  bitter  cry  of  his  mother,  he  turned  quickly  around, 
himself  once  more. 

"  Mother,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  shocked  at  his  own  words. 
"  I  have  been  too  abrupt — I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  in  this 
way.  But  it  has  all  come  so  suddenly  upon  myself,  that  I  feel 
half  dazed.  After  all,  my  rejoining  the  army  ought  not  to 
shock  you  very  greatly.  It  is  only  what  I  have  contemplated 
long,  what  I  would  to  Heaven  I  had  done  a  year  ago." 

"  Lewis,  my  son,"  his  mother  said,  looking  at  him  with  won- 
dering, terrified  eyes,  "  what  is  this  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of 
this  sudden  resolution  ?  For  it  is  sudden  ;  a  week  ago  you  had 
no  idea  of  forsaking  your  wife.  What  has  come  between  you 
now  ? 

She  saw  the  drawn  look  of  torture  that  flashed  across  his  face, 
saw  his  teeth  set,  and  his  hand  clench. 

"  A  secret  that  will  part  us  forever.     A  crime  ! " 

"A  crime?" 

"  Yes,  one  of  the  darkest  of  crimes,  blood-guiltiness,  mother. 

Her  face  blanches,  her  lips  tremble,  her  eyes  are  riveted  in 
amaze  and  horror  upon  him. 

"You  thought  1  had  no  secret  from  you — that  my  life  was  an 
open  record  for  all  men  to  read,  that  no  hidden  sin  lay  at  my 
door.  That  was  your  mistake.  Five  years  ago  1  killed  a  man, 
and  to-day  retribution  has  come  home  to  me." 

He  has  a  vague  feeling  that  those  things  should  be  broken 
to  her  gently,  but  he  cannot  do  it.  As  he  feels  them,  they 
must  come  out,  or  not  at  all.  For  his  mother,  she  sits  half- 
stunned,  half-bewildered,  dumb. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  the  story,  mother  ;  but  first  let  me  tell  you 
Sydney's.  You  may  not  know,  perhaps,  that  once  before  she 
was  a  bride — her  bridal  dress  on,  and  she  waiting  for  the  bride- 
groom, who  never  came.  The  man  could  not  come,  he  had 
been  ki'led  in  a  paroxysm  of  jealous  rage  the  night  before. 
The  shock,  the  shame,  the  horror  of  it  all,  brought  on  her  father's 
tfeath.  On  his  death-bed  his  last  injun;tion  to  her  was, 


"AS   ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETH"    389 

to  bring  to  justice,  if  she  ever  met  him,  the  slayer  of  her  lover. 
The  promise  was  made,  and  promises  to  the  dying  are  binding. 
And  last  night,  for  the  first  time,  she  met  and  knew  this  man." 

Mrs.  Nolan  sits  with  her  hands  clasped,  listening  breathlessly 
to  this  rapid,  almost  incoherent  story,  which  she  but  half  com- 
prehends. 

"Last  night  she  met  him,  mother — to  know  him.  I,  her 
husband,  am  the  man  whom  she  stands  pledged  to  deliver  up  to 
the  justice  of  the  law.  It  was  I  who  killed  bw  lover,  the  night 
before  he  was  to  have  been  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Nolan  rises  up,  an  angry  flush  on  her  face,  an  excited 
gleam  in  her  eye. 

"  Lewis,  I  do  not  understand  one  word  of  what  you  are  saying. 
Have  you  been  drinking,  or  are  you  going  mad  ?  How  can 
you  stand  there  and  tell  me  such  shocking  and  false  things  ?" 

"  They  are  not  false,  mother — there  is  no  such  hope  for  me 
as  that." 

His  steady  tone  staggers  her.  She  shrinks  back  into  her 
chair,  and  puts  her  hand  in  a  lost  way  to  her  head. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  again,  Lewis,  and  more  clearly,  please.  I 
do  not  seem  able  to  understand  you.  My  son  a  murderer ! 
Surely  1  have  misunderstood  all  you  have  been  saying." 

"  Yes,  it  is  hard  to  realize,  is  it  not  ?  It  is  hard  to  think  that 
one  sin,  done  years  ago  in  a  moment  of  passion,  atoned  for,  as 
1  had  hoped,  should  break  so  many  innocent  hearts.  But  it  is 
true,  and  it  has  parted  me  and  my  wife  forever — it  sends  me  an 
outcast  from  home  for  all  time.  My  fate  is  deserved — hers, 
poor  innocent  child,  is  not.  I  ought  to  break  those  things  to 
you,  I  suppose,  but  I  never  learned  how  to  break  things  ;  i  can 
tell  you  in  no  other  way  than  this." 

He  drops  into  a  seat,  for  he  is  dead  tired,  and  begins,  as  col- 
lectedly as  he  can,  the  whole  most  wretched  narrative  of  mis- 
placed love,  of  insane  jealousy,  of  ungovernable  passion,  and 
of  the  result.  She  sits  listening  with  strained  and  painful  at- 
tention, comprehending  at  last  the  whole  sad  history  of  passion 
and  sin,  remorse  and  retribution.  And  when  the  story  is  done, 
there  is  silence  again.  Mrs.  Nolan  sits  weeping,  without  a  word, 
such  tears  as  in  all  her  We  she  has  never  shed  before,  and  she 
has  been  a  woman  of  trouble,  acquainted  with  sorrow. 

"May  God  forgive  you,  my  son  !  "  is  what  she  says  at  last. 

"  Am  i  indeed  a  murderer  ?  "  he  drearily  asks  ;  "  have  I  all 
these  years  been  deluding  myself  with  sophistries  ?  " 

"  A  murderer  .' — no,  a  thousand  times  no  1 "  his  mother  cries 


39°     "AS  ONE    WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETH" 

out,  "  Heaven  forbid  !  The  sin  is  in  the  intention,  and  you  had 
no  intention  of  taking  this  man's  life.  All  the  same,  it  has  been 
taken,  and  here  at  least  it  seems  you  must  expiate  your  sin. 
Oh,  my  son  !  my  son  !  what  can  I  say  to  comfort  you  ?  " 

"  It  is  past  all  that,  mother — say  you  forgive  me,  before  I  go, 
and  try  and  comfort  my  wife — I  ask  no  more." 

He  breaks  utterly  down  at  the  words,  at  the  thought  of  that 
beloved,  that  most  wretched  wife,  and  turns  away  and  bows 
his  face  on  his  arm. 

"  My  Lewis,  my  boy,  it  is  the  first  real  sorrow  you  have  given 
me  in  your  life.  I  forgive  you,  and  I  know  that  forgiveness, 
higher  and  greater,  will  not  be  refused.  I  will  care  for  your 
wife.  Oh,  poor  child,  what  a  blow  for  her  who  has  loved  you 
beyond  the  love  of  woman  !" 

"  Hush  !  "  he  hoarsely  exclaims,  "  I  am  almost  mad  already 
—do  you  want  to  drive  me  quite." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  your  plans,  dear  ?  "  she  asks  gently,  infinite 
compassion,  infinite  yearning  mother-love  in  her  eyes. 

"  1  have  none.  I  join  my  regiment,  as  I  have  told  you,  at 
once  ;  beyond  that,  the  future  will  take  care  of  itself.  If 
things  end  as  I  wish,  there  will  be  no  need  of  further  plans.  If 
they  do  not,  1  shall  go  to  California,  and  there  begin  again. 
Our  parting  is  for  life,  that  you  must  see.  I  must  write  a  letter 
to  Graham  explaining,  without  telling  the  real  cause  of  my 
abrupt  departure.  There  need  be  no  scandal ;  I  have  simply 
gone  to  the  war,  as  is  all  men's  duty  nowadays.  For  my  wife," 
— a  pause  to  command  himself — "  I  commit  her  to  your  care. 
She  has  youth,  she  has  strength,  and  she  has  limitless  wealth ; 
she  need  not  mourn  forever.  Persuade  her  to  travel,  mother, 
to  go  abroad  again  to  her  English  friends,  or  to  the  Continent. 
You  will  know  what  to  say  to  her  better  than  I  can  tell  you. 
I  am  not  worth  one  tear  from  those  pure  eyes.  There  are 
some  things  I  would  like  to  say  to  her ;  I  will  write  them  here 
before  I  go." 

He  sits  down  and  begins  to  work,  resolutely  summoning  all 
his  self-control.  He  writes  his  letter  to  Mr.  Graham,  answers 
the  many  documents  he  has  brought  with  him  from  the  house, 
and  makes  all  into  a  neat  parcel  lor  the  post.  Then  he  begins 
that  other  letter.  He  writes  "  My  Dear  Wife,"  and  sits  staring 
at  the  words  as  if  they  held  some  spell  for  him  that  he  could 
not  break.  But  once  he  begins,  his  pen  flies  over  the  paper, 
page  after  page.  It  is  the  last  he  ever  intends  to  write,  and  he 
pours  out  his  whole  heart  in  it,  as  even  his  wife  has  never  seen 


"„*£  ONE   WHOM  HIS  MOTHER  COMFORTETff."    391 

it  before.  It  is  a  voluminous  epistle  before  it  is  done,  folded, 
sealed  and  addressed.  Then  he  holds  it  with  wistful,  yearning 
eye's,  looking  at  the  name  his  hand  has  written,  "  Sydney 
Nolan,"  the  last  link  of  all  that  binds  him  and  his  wife  together 
now.  His  mother  comes  in,  and  stoops  and  kisses  him  tenderly 
as  he  sits.  With  homely,  motherly  care  that  is  better  than 
sentiment,  she  has  been  preparing  breakfast  for  her  boy,  a 
breakfast  he  used  to  like  when  he  was  all  her  own.  He  sits 
down  to  please  her,  with  the  knowledge  that  a  journey  lies  be- 
fore him,  and  the  loss  of  strength  will  help  no  man  to  bear 
trouble.  But  Mrs.  Nolan  sighs  over  his  performance,  and  gazes 
at  him  anxiously  as  he  rises.  "  You  eat  nothing,  my  son." 

"  Your  coffee  has  done  me  good.  Post  the  package  to 
Graham,  mother,  and  take  the  letter  to  Sydney  yourself.  I  will 
go  up  and  look  at  Lucy  before  1  leave." 

He  ascends  the  stairs  without  noise.  The  little  dainty  room 
is  darkened,  and  Lucy  lies  tranquilly  asleep  after  her  exhaust- 
ing night  of  pain.  How  placid,  how  pure,  how  passionless  is 
that  wan  face.  He  stoops  gently  and  touches  his  lips  to  her 
thin  cheek.  She  stirs  restlessly,  but  does  not  awaken,  and  he 
goes,  as  he  has  come,  unheard. 

His  mother  is  crying  below.  She  has  striven  heroically  to 
keep  up,  but  nature  is  stronger  than  will.  He  takes  her  in  his 
arms  and  kisses  her. 

"  Good-bye,  mother.  Forgive  me  and  pray  for  me.  I  will 
write  to  you  regularly,  and  you  will  tell  me  all  that  there  is  to 
tell.  Everything,  you  understand." 

"I  understand."  She  sobs  audibly,  in  a  heart-broken  way 
and  clings  to  him.  "  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy  !  it  is  hard  to  let 
you  go." 

"  It  is  hard  for  me  ;  do  not  make  it  any  harder,  mother,"  he 
says,  in  a  tortured  voice,  and  she  opens  her  arms  and  lets  him 
go." 

"  The  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  was  a  widow,"  and  the 
last  time  she  may  ever  see  him  this  side  of  the  grave.  Her 
eyes  are  blinded  with  tears  as  she  watches  him  out  of  sight. 
The  son  who  has  been  her  hope,  her  pride,  her  gladness  for 
soven-and-twenty  years.  She  watches  him  out  of  sight  as 
women  do  watch  the  men  they  love,  and  may  never  see  again, 
and  then  sits  down  and  cries  as  she  has  never  cried  in  all  hei 
troublec'  life. 


3Q2         "  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  LIES  DEAD." 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
"THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  LIES  DEAD." 

JYING  motionless  against  the  cushioned  back  of  her 
chair,  white  and  still  ;  so,  when  morning  comes,  and  a 
servant  enters,  she  finds  Lewis  Nolan's  wife  She  has 
not  fainted,  she  has  not  been  insensible  for  one  mo- 
ment ;  she  lies  here  stunned.  Over  and  over  in  her  mind  the 
weary  hours  through,  the  words  he  has  said  keep  repeating 
themselves — the  words  that  divorce  them  forever. 

He  has  killed  Bertie  Vaughan  ;  her  husband  is  the  man  she 
stands  pledged  to  her  dying  father  to  deliver  over  to  justice  : 
he  has  left  her,  never  to  return.  These  three  things  follow  each 
other  ceaselessly  through  her  dazed  brain,  until  the  very  power 
of  thinking  at  all  becomes  numb. 

She  opens  her  eyes  at  the  girl's  cry  of  consternation,  and 
rises  with  an  effort.  The  servant  speaks  to  her,  but  she  is  un- 
conscious of  what  she  says.  She  goes  into  her  bedroom — it  is 
dark  and  still  here — and  lies  down  with  a  dull  sense  of  oppres- 
sion and  suffering  upon  her,  and  buries  her  face  in  the  pillows. 

If  she  could  only  sleep,  if  she  could  only  for  an  hour  cease 
to  think.  But  she  cannot.  Like  a  machine  that  has  been 
wound  up  to  its  utmost  tension,  and  must  go  on  until  it  runs 
itself  down,  so  she  thinks,  and  thinks,  and  thinks.  Where  is 
Lewis  now  ?  V\*ill  it  be  wrong  for  her  to  think  of  him  after  this, 
to  love  him,  to  pray  for  him  ?  If  so,  she  will  do  wrong  all  her 
life  long.  Is  she  committing  a  sin  in  disobeying  her  father's 
last  command  ?  How  strange,  how  strange  that  Lewis  should 
have  been  the  one  to  throw  Bertie  over  the  cliff.  Poor  Bertie ! 
how  fond  and  proud  they  all  were  of  him  once — her  father,  and 
mother,  and  she  too. 

He  rises  before  her,  the  blonde,  boyish  beauty  of  his  face,  his 
fair  curling  hair  and  merry  eyes.  It  was  a  dreadful  fate  ;  and 
Lewis,  her  Lewis,  whom  she  has  revered  and  honored  as  some- 
thing more  than  man,  his  hand  is  red  with  Bertie's  blood. 
Thought  becomes  such  torture  that  she  presses  both  hands  upon 
her  temples,  striving  by  main  force  to  shut  it  o  it.  She  is  still 
lying  here  when  Mrs.  Nolan  reaches  the  house  and  goes  up  to 
her  room. 

"  My  own  deai  child  ! " 


"  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  LIES  DEAD"        393 

The  white  face  lifts,  the  eyes  look  at  her  so  full  of  infinite 
misery  that  tears  spring  to  those  of  the  elder  woman.  She 
puts  her  arms  about  her  and  kisses  the  blanched  lips, 

"  Sydney,  my  dearest  child,  what  shall  I  say  to  you  ?  How 
shall  I  comfort  you  ?  May  Heaven  help  you — you  must  look 
for  your  comfort  there." 

"  Has  he  gone  ?  "  Sydney  says,  in  an  odd,  hollow  voice  that 
startles  even  herself. 

"  Yes,  dear — Heaven  help  him  !  He  came  to  me  at  daybreak 
this  morning  and  told  me  all.  Are  you  angry  with  him,  Sydney  ? 
Oh,  if  you  knew  how  he  suffers  you  would  not  be." 

"Angry  with  him?"  she  repeats,  in  a  dreary  sort  of  wonder. 
"  Angry  with  Lewis  ?  Oh,  no  !  " 

"It  was  a  terrible  thing.  Do  you  not  think,  my  dearest  daugh- 
ter, that  it  is  almost  as  bitter  a  blow  to  me  as  to  you  ?  I  have 
been  so  proud  of  my  boy,  of  his  talents,  of  the  praise  men  gave 
him  ;  he  was  such  a  good  son  always,  so  free  from  the  vices  of 
most  young  men.  And  now " 

But  her  voice  breaks,  and  the  tears  gush  forth  again,  none  the 
less  heart-rending  for  being  so  quiet. 

But  Sydney  does  not  cry.  She  looks  at  her  in  the  same 
drearily  dry-eyed  way,  in  a  sort  of  wistful  wonder  and  envy  at 
her  tears. 

"  I  cannot  cry,"  she  says,  wretchedly,  with  her  hand  on  her 
heart.  "  I  seem  to  ache  here,  but  I  don't  feel  like  crying  at  all 
It  was  the  same  when  Bertie  was  killed,  and  papa  lay  dying  and 
dead.  They  thought  1  was  hard  and  cold,  because  when  all 
wept  I  sat  like  a  stone.  I  feel  the  same  now.  And  mostly  I 
cry  for  such  little  things." 

She  sighs  heavily,  and  lies,  in  a  tired  way,  back  among  the 
pillows.  She  recalls  how  she  sat  and  wept  when  poor  mamma 
died,  lonely  and  sorrowing,  but  without  this  miserable,  unendur- 
able aching  of  the  heart. 

"  Have  you  had  breakfast  ?  "  Mrs.  Nolan  asks,  more  troubled 
by  this   apathetic  despair  than  by  any  hysterical  outburst  of 
grief. 
,     "  No,  I  was  not  hungry.     Is  it  past  breakfast-time  ?  " 

"  It  is  two  o'clock,  and  you  have  fasted  a  great  deal  too  long. 
We  will  be  having  you  sick  on  our  hands,  and  that  won't  help 
matters."  Mrs.  Nolan  rings  the  bell,  and  wipes  away  all  traces 
of  tears,  and  orders  strong  coffee  and  toast.  "  I  cannot  nurse 
two  in\  alids  at  once,"  she  says,  forcing  a  smile,  "  so  I  must  keep 
you  up.  Poor  Lucy  was  in  wretched  pain  all  night." 
17* 


394 

"  Ah  !  poor  Lucy !  dear  Lucy !  patient,  gentle  Lucy  !  doet 
she  know  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear.  I  told  her  just  before  I  came  away.  She  was 
asleep  when  Lewis  left,  and  he  kissed  her  good-bye  without 
awakening  her." 

A  quiver  passed  over  Sydney's  face.  She  was  thinking  of 
their  own  last  parting. 

"  How  does  she  bear  it?" 

"As  she  bears  all  things — with  angelic  patience.  In  long 
suffering  my  child,  Lucy  has  learned  resignation,  that  virtue 
which  some  one  beautifully  calls  'putting  God  between  our- 
selves and  our  troubles.'  You  must  learn  it,  Sydney.  That, 
and  that  alone,  will  enable  you  to  bear  this,  and  all  the  other 
sorrows  of  life." 

"  Life  can  have  no  other  sorrow  like  this,  mother." 

"  The  lesson  we  must  all  learn,  dear  child,  sooner  or  later,  is 
endurance.  You  must  lay  your  sorrows  at  the  feet  of  Him  who 
bore  our  sorrows,  and  look  for  help  and  comfort  there.  Here  is 
a  letter  Lewis  left  for  you  this  morning ;  you  will  read  it  when 
I  am  gone." 

She  draws  back  for  a  second,  with  a  startled  look,  and  gazes 
at  it. 

"  May  I  ?  "  she  says.     "  Will  it  be  right  ?  " 

"  Right !  Right  to  take  your  husband's  letter  !  My  child,  is 
your  mind  wandering  ?  Does  your  duty  as  a  wife  cease  because 
you  have  discovered  a  sin  in  your  husband's  life  ?  " 

"  But  it  was  like  no  other,"  Sydney  says,  wildly,  "  and  it 
must  part  us  forever." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.  But  that  is  a  question  of  the 
future,  for  thought,  and  humble  prayer.  Just  now  you  can  de- 
cide nothing.  Here  come  your  coffee  and  toast.  Now,  Syd- 
ney, I  shall  expect  you,  for  my  sake,  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  I  will  try  to,"  Sydney  says,  submissively.  She  rises  in  bed  ; 
Mrs.  Nolan  bathes  her  face  and  hands,  and  places  the  tray 
before  her.  She  is  thirsty,  and  drinks  the  coffee  eagerly,  but 
she  cannot  eat.  With  difficulty  she  swallows  a  mouthful  or 
two,  and  looks  beseechingly  up  in  the  other's  face.  "  I  can- 
not," she  says  ;  "at  least,  not  now  ;  later,  I  will  try." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  you,  but  I 
cannot.  Would  you  not  like  to  come  with  me,  and  see  Lucy  ? 
She  asked  me  to  bring  you  back  if  you  were  able  to  come. 
Will  you  not,  my  child  ?  Order  the  carriage  and  come  and  stay 
with  us  for  a  few  days." 


"THE  LIGHT  JV  THE  DUST  L/ES  LEAD"        395 

But  Sydney  shakes  her  head,  and  turns  away. 

"  No,  mother.  Do  not  feel  hurt — but  1  cannot  go,  cannot 
leai  e  home.  I  am  better  here,  better  alone.  I  must  be  alone 
for  a  while.  No  one,  not  even  Lucy,  can  help  me  bear  my 
trouble  yet." 

"Poor  child  !"  Lewis  Nolan's  mother  stands  and  looks  at 
her  with  infinite  mother  pity  in  her  kind  old  face.  What  can 
she  say — what  can  she  do  for  this  stricken  heart  ?  And  only 
yesterday  life  seemed  to  hold  all  of  happiness  one  life  can  ever 
hold. 

"  I  am  half  afraid  to  leave  you,"  she  says,  in  a  troubled 
voice.  "  You  ought  not  to  be  left  alone.  And  it  is  so  difficult 
for  me  to  come  often." 

Sydney  flings  her  arms  about  her  with  a  tearless  sob. 

"  Dear  mother — dear,  thoughtful  mother,  do  not  fear  for  me. 
I  am  not  so  weak  as  you  think.  Only  leave  me  to  myself  for  a 
little.  Indeed  I  am  better  alone." 

Mrs.  Nolan  goes,  and  Sydney  has  her  desire  ;  she  is  alone. 
The  hours  pass,  the  evening  falls.  Teddy,  who  has  been 
clamoring  for  her  all  day,  makes  his  way  at  lamp-light  time 
into  her  room,  but  she  neither  hears  nor  heeds  him.  The  ser- 
vants look  at  each  other,  and  whisper  and  wonder.  Something 
has  happened  between  master  and  missis,  and  master  has  gone, 
and  missis  isn't  fit  to  rise  off  her  bed. 

The  night  passes,  another  day  breaks.  Sydney  rises  and 
dresses,  dry-eyed  and  ghastly  pale.  When  breakfast  time 
conies  she  sits  down  with  Teddy  to  that  meal. 

"  Was  the  matter  wiz  you,  Auntie  Sydney  ?  "  is  the  burden 
of  Teddy's  wondering  cry ;  "  and  where's  Uncle  Lewis  ?  I 
wants  Uncle  Lewis.  Say,  Auntie  Syd,  where's  Uncle  Lewis?" 
The  child's  reiterated  question  grows  so  torturing  that  she  is 
forced  to  send  him  away  at  last. 

An  hour  or  two  later  brings  once  more  her  mother-in-law, 
looking  wretchedly  worried  and  anxious.  Sydney  is  sitting 
listlessly  in  the  chair  in  which  she  sat  when  her  life  was  crushed 
out,  as  it  seems  to  her,  by  that  dreadful  story  ;  her  hands  folded 
loosely  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  portrait  of  her  husband 
on  the  wall.  She  has  not  read  his  letter — she  feels  no  desire 
to  read  it ;  she  is  still  striving,  and  still  unable,  to  realize  all 
the  horror  of  the  past  forty-eight  hours.  She  lifts  two  listless, 
apathetic  eyes  to  the  mother's  face. 

"  Is  Li.cy  better?"   she  asks. 

"Lucy  is  better  in  body,  but  suffering  natarally  in  mind— 


396        "THE   LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  LIES  DEAD?' 

suffering  more  for  you  than  for  any  one  else.  Will  you  not 
come  with  me  to-day,  Sydney  ?" 

But  still  Sydney  wearily  shakes  her  head. 

"  Give  me  a  little  longer,  mother,  to  think  it  out  by  myself. 
It  is  so  hard  to  realize  it  all.  The  blow  was  so  sudden  that  I 
feel  crushed — stunned." 

She  is  firm  in  her  re-solve,  and  once  more  Mrs.  Nolan  leaves 
her,  sadly  troubled.  What  a  miserable  business  it  all  is.  How 
terrible  to  think  that  the  ungoverned  passion  of  a  moment 
should  wreck  two  lives  forever. 

The  news  spreads  that  Mr.  Nolan  has  rejoined  the  army,  and 
that  Mrs.  Nolan  is  inconsolable  over  his  departure.  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Macgregor  call,  and  Mrs.  Nolan  is  at  home.  Her  sorrow 
she  cannot  forget  is  also  her  secret ;  Lewis'  honor  and  safety 
are  in  her  hands.  Whatever  she  may  suffer,  though  she  never 
meet  him  more,  no  one  must  suspect  that  other  than  natural 
grief  at  parting  is  in  her  heart.  She  comes  down  as  carefully 
dressed  as  usual,  to  meet  them,  but  at  sight  of  her  both 
ladies  utter  a  simultaneous  exclamation. 

"  My  dear  Sydney,  surely  you  have  been  ill  !  " 

She  is  so  worn,  so  wasted,  so  white,  so  changed  in  three  days, 
that  both  sit  and  look  at  her,  honestly  shocked. 

"  No,"  Sydney  answers,  "  I  have  not  been  ill." 

She  leans  her  head  against  the  blue  satin  back  of  her  chair, 
as  if  even  to  sit  upright  were  a  painful  effort. 

"  We  were  very  much  surprised  to  hear  of  Mr.  Nolnn's  de- 
parture, my  dear  Sydney,"  says  Mrs.  Macgregor,  smoothly,  and 
watching  her  with  a  cat-like  gleam.  "  A  very  sudden  decision, 
was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.     He  has  been  talking  of  it  from  the  first." 

"  Ah  !  we  all  know  what  it  is  to  have  our  dear  ones  in  dan- 
ger. Poor  Dick  !"  sighs  Dick's  mother,  with  real  feeling. 

"  I  wish  my  dear  one — meaning,  of  course,  Mr.  Vanderdonck 
- — would  take  it  into  his  head  to  go  three  hours  after  the  cere- 
mony. With  what  Spartan  generosity  would  I  not  offer  up  my 
bridegroom  upon  the  altar  of  my  country,"  says  the  vivacious 
Katherine. 

The  call  is  short,  for  Sydney's  responses  are  monosyllabic  ; 
she  looks  cold,  and  wretched,  and  ill,  through  it  all,  the  very 
ghost  of  her  own  bright  self. 

"  And  this  is  to  be  in  love  ! "  says  Katherine,  with  her  most 
contemptuous  shrug.  "Thanks  and  prake  be  that  I  never  felt 
the  tender  passion.  She  looks  as  if  she  might  safely  go  into 


"  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DUST  LIES  DEAD."        397 

her  coffin  and  the  lid  by  screwed  down.  After  six  months  of 
matrimony,  too  !  " 

"  I  believe  there  is  something  more  under  this  than  meet! 
the  eye,"  says  mamma,  oracularly.  "  I  never  liked  the  looks 
of  that  young  man.  In  the  ordinary  course  of  things  she  might 
grieve  for  his  departure  ;  but  there  is  something  more  than 
wifely  grief  in  that  face,  or  I  am  mistaken." 

Mrs.  Graham  came  too,  full  of  sympathy  for  Mrs.  Nolan,  and 
of  pride  and  praise  for  Lewis.  Sydney  listened  drearily  to  it 
all,  tried  to  answer,  and  was  glad  when  it  was  over,  and  she  was 
left  alone  once  more. 

On  the  fifth  day  she  went  out  for  the  first  time,  and  made 
her  way  to  the  cottage  to  see  Lucy.  Without  a  word  Lucy 
opened  her  arms,  and  Sydney  went  into  them  and  lay  still. 
The  mother  left  them  alone — if  any  one  could  help  this  dumb 
torpor  of  pain,  it  was  Lucy — she  would  not  interfere. 

She  was  right.  Seated  on  a  hassock  beside  Lucy's  chair, 
Lucy  softly  touching  the  fair  head  that  drooped  on  her  knee, 
Lucy  lovingly  and  sweetly  speaking,  the  first  ray  of  light  seemed 
to  pierce  the  darkness  of  Sydney's  despair.  For  it  was  des- 
pair, tearless,  speechless  despair,  an  agony  of  loss,  or  bewil- 
dered misery  too  great  for  tears  or  words. 

"  I  want  you  to  stay  with  me  all  night,"  Lucy  said,  entreat- 
ingly.  "  Remember  you  have  never  passed  a  night  here  yet.  It 
is  so  lonely  for  you  in  that  great  empty  house." 

Lonely  !  A  spasm  crossed  the  widowed  wife's  face.  Ay, 
lonely  indeed  ;  lonely  forever  more. 

She  consented,  and  with  Lucy's  gentle  words  still  soothing 
her  troubled  soul,  the  first  unbroken  sleep  that  had  come  to 
her  since  that  night  refreshed  her.  She  had  knelt  by  the  bed- 
side with  clasped  hands  and  bent  head,  with  no  words  on  her 
lips,  but  bowing  down  body  and  soul  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross, 
her  heart  crying  out  in  its  anguish  for  help  to  that  great  love 
"  that  never  fails,  when  earthly  loves  decay."  And  with  next 
day's  awakening  some  of  Lucy's  own  patience  and  resignation 
seemed  to  awake  in  her  soul. 

"  Have  you  read  the  letter  Lewis  left  for  you,  Sydney?" 
Lucy  asked  before  they  parted. 

Sydney's  lips  quivered. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said.     "  I  could  not.     I  was  not  able." 

"  Read  it  to-day,  dear.  See  what  he  says,  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing  he  asks  you  to  do  for  him,  you  will  be  the  happier  foi 
doing  it.  And  keep  Teddy  with  you — poor  little  fellow  ;  it  is 


398          "IT  JS  GOOD  TO  BE  LOYAL  AND  TRUE." 

cruel  to  neglect  him  and  make  him  suffer.  A  child  is  the  best 
companion  in  the  world,  too." 

Sydney  goes,  feeling  strengthened  and  lightened  somehow, 
and  obeys  all  orders.  She  goes  to  see  Teddy,  who  is  in  trouble 
on  his  own  account,  his  frisky  "  wocking  hoss "  having  just 
pilc^ed  him  heels  over  head.  He  is  kissed,  and  comforted,  and 
set  right  side  up  again,  and  then  Sydney  wanders  away  to  her 
husband's  study,  and,  in  the  room  sacred  to  his  use,  reads  the 
letter. 

It  is  very  long,  and  inexpressibly  tender.  It  shows  her  his 
heart  as  she  has  never  known  it  before.  And  all  at  once,  at 
some  loving,  pathetic  words,  at  the  old  pet  name,  "  my  prin- 
cess," she  breaks  down  ;  and  a  very  tempest  of  tears  and  sobs 
washes  away  the  darkness  of  despair.  The  worst  is  over,  the 
blow  has  fallen,  and  she  knows  he  is  dearer  to  her  a  hundred- 
fold than  ever  before.  She  sits  there  for  hours,  and  an  uplifted, 
sublimated  feeling  comes  in  place  of  the  tearless,  hopeless  ap- 
athy that  has  held  her  so  long.  She  will  begin  her  life  anew, 
apart  from  him  in  this  world  if  it  must  be,  and  yet  united  more 
closely  than  before  in  heart.  In  helping  others  she  will  forget 
her  own  sorrow — in  doing  good,  peace  may  return  even  to  her. 
She  will  learn  to  say,  "  Thy  Will  be  done,"  and  kiss  the  rod 
that  smites  her.  She  will  possess  her  soul  in  patience,  and 
wait ;  and  if  never  here,  at  least  in  the  true  Fatherland,  where 
all  are  forgiven,  where  parting  and  pain  come  not,  her  husband 
will  be  hers  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"IT    IS    GOOD    TO    BE    LOYAL    AND    TRUE." 

ARLY  in  the  December  of  that  year,  some  who  read  this 
may  recall  a  fashionable  wedding,  with  which  the  papers 
of  that  day  rang.  It  was  a  magnificent  affair,  quite  regal 
really.  For  once  in  his  life,  old  Vanderdonck  did  the 
handsome  thing,  came  down  regardless  of  expense,  and  awoke  to 
find  himself  famous — for  one  day  at  least.  The  beauty  of  the 
bride,  the  wedding-robe,  wreath,  and  veil,  imported  from  Paris, 
the  great  wealth  of  the  bridegroom,  combined  to  make  it  an  event 
of  profound  interest  in  certain  circles.  Outsiders  might  note  the 


M/T  75   GOOD   TO  BE  LOV  AL  AND   TRUE."        399 

trifling  disparity  of  years,  some  Haifa  century,  more  or  Itss,  be- 
tween the  happy  pair — might  sneer  about  May  and  December, 
make  cynical  allusions  to  selling  and  buying — but  these  sarcastic 
people  were  mostly  people  who  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it.  To 
the  initiated  it  was  the  bridegroom  who  was  sold,  not  the  bride. 
Poor  old  Vanderdonck — in  snowy  front  and  waistcoat,  a  small 
koh-i-noor  ablaze  on  his  aged  breast,  with  his  long  white  hair 
and  wrinkled,  white  face — looked  beautifully  clean  and  idiotically 
happy.  A  senile  chuckle  was  on  that  old  face,  as  he  waited  for 
his  bride  at  the  chancel-rail ;  and  Katie,  tall  and  magnificent,  in 
one  of  Worth's  chefs-d'oeuvre,  swept  superbly  up  the  broad  nave, 
with  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March"  thundering  from  the 
organ-loft,  and  the  peal  of  the  bridal  bells  outside. 

The  church  was  a  jam  ;  and  as  the  bride  floated  by  in  "gleam 
of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls,"  an  audible  murmur  of  "  How 
lovely  !  "  ran  through  the  house.  These  are  the  hours  in  which 
we  are  made  indeed  to  feel  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and 
that  "  Patient  waiters  are  no  losers."  Long  and  unweariedly 
had  this  wise  virgin  angled  for  her  prize ;  long  had  it  hung 
tantalizingly  just  within  and  just  without  her  grasp  ;  but  the  fish 
was  hooked  at  last,  and  brought  safe  and  gasping  upon  the 
matrimonial  shore.  Perhaps  these  pious  thoughts  were 
Katherine's  own,  as — a  soft  flash  of  exultation  in  her  eyes,  a 
glow  of  triumph  on  her  cheeks — she  heard  that  swelling  mur- 
mur, and  felt  she  was  repaid  for  the  toil  of  many  a  weary  year. 

There  were  present  a  great  throng  of  the  friends  and 
relatives  of  the  bride.  Her  mamma  among  them,  with  her  ex- 
pensive wedding  handkerchief  terher  hard  old  eyes,  not  used  to 
moisture.  If  they  were  wet  now,  the  tears  were  crystal  drops 
of  purest  gratitude  and  joy. 

What  mother  would  not  have  wept  to  see  her  darling,  her 
one  ewe  lamb,  safely  sheltered  from  the  storms  of  life  in  manly 
and  marital  arms,  and  with  five  thousand  a  year  pin-money  set- 
tled on  her  for  life?  Uncle  Grif  gave  the  bride  away,  and 
trembled  more  than  she  did  when  doing  it,  and  wiped  the  drops 
of  moisture  from  his  poor  bald  brow.  Captain  Dick  had  been 
bidden,  but  Captain  Dick  had  sent  back  a  grumbling,  misanthro- 
pic, and  altogether  unfeeling  refusal.  He  had  never  had  any 
taste  for  farces  or  foolery ;  poor  old  Vanderdonck  wasn't  a  bad 
sort  of  old  duffer,  as  old  duffers  wen:.  He  didn't  care  about 
taking  a  journey  of  so  many  miles  to  witness  his  misery.  Dick 
was  in  the  reprobate  state  of  mind  concerning  these  delicate 
matters  of  sentiment  and  settlements,  rude  young  men  do  at 


400        "IT  IS   GOOD   TO  BE  LDYAL  AND   TRUE" 

times  get  into.  His  good  mother's  training  had  been  thrown 
away  upon  him  ;  he  had  refused  point  blank  to  make  up  to 
Emmy  Vinton,  who  was  an  heiress  too,  just  before  his  depar- 
ture ;  he  even  went  so  far,  in  his  coarse  camp  language,  as  to 
designate  the  whole  affair  as  a  "beastly  sell." 

It  was  a  painful  letter,  very  painful,  and  was  rendered  none 
the  less  so  to  Mrs.  Macgregor  by  Katherine  informing  her 
coolly  there  was  nothing  to  be  angry  at,  Dick  was  perfectly 
right. 

So  Dick  was  not  there  ;  but  everybody  else  was — among 
them  Mrs.  Lewis  Nolan,  cousin  of  the  bride,  whose  own  mar- 
riage, in  a  different  way,  had  been  equally  sensational,  and  whose 
beauty  and  wealth  had  been  so  much  talked  of.  People  looked 
at  her  eagerly  on  this  occasion,  and  those  who  saw  her  for  the 
first  time  were  apt  to  be  disappointed. 

"  That  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Nolan — that  pale,  almost  sickly- 
looking  girl  ?  Absurd  !  She  is  no  more  a  beauty  than — than 
I  am." 

Young  ladies  said  this,  and  scoffed  forever  after  at  the  legend 
of  her  refusing  the  peerless  Van  Cuyler.  Matrons  shook  their 
heads,  and  whispered  ominously:  "Consumption,  or  perhaps 
heart  disease  ;  these  transparent  complexions  always  foretell 
speedy  death."  But  men  looked  at,  and  admired  that  frail, 
spirituelle  loveliness,  that  soft-cut  youthful  mouth,  around  which 
lines  of  pain  were  drawn,  a  mouth  that  seemed  to  have  forgot- 
ten how  to  smile,  at  those  deep  blue  eyes,  from  whose  sad 
depths  some  abiding  sorrow  looked  out. 

"  J  never  saw  any  one  so  changed,  many  people  said.  "  I 
attended  a  ball  she  gave,  shortly  after  her  marriage,  and  you 
would  scarcely  know  her  for  the  same  creature.  That  was  a 
face  of  radiant  beauty  and  happiness  ;  this,  why  this  is  the 
face  of  a  corpse  almost,  tricked  out  in  jewels,  and  laces,  and  a 
silk  shroud." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  have  heard  of  the  youth  who  loved  and 
who  rode  away  ?  well,  that  is  precisely  the  case  here.  Her 
knight  has  gone  to  the  wars,"  gayly  says  the  bride,  at  the  break- 
fast half  an  hour  later  to  one  of  these  wondering  inquirers  ;  and 
the  old  sarcastic  shrug  of  the  bare  plump  shoulders  accents  the 
words. 

"  But  surely  that  is  not  the  reason  of  so  great  a  change," 
says  the  gentleman  incredulously,  looking  across  and  through  a 
stack  of  cut  flowers  that  stands  between  him  and  that  fair,  pale 
face. 


"7T  SS   GOOD   TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE."        401 

"The  only  reason,"  answers  Mrs.  Vanderdonck,  with  her 
most  caustic  laugh.  "  Oh,  you  may  wear  that  unbelieving  face 
if  you  please,  but  it  is  perfectly  true  !  Quite  a  pastoral,  a  New 
York  idyll,  a  bit  of  Arcadia,  a  love  sonnet,  this  marriage  of  my 
cousin  Sydney's.  I  remember  long  ago,"  runs  on  the  bride, 
who  is  in  high  spirits,  "  reading  the  story  of  a  certain  French 
Chevalier  and  his  lady,  who  were  so  devoted  to  one  another 
that  when  monsieur  went  out  a  hunting  early  in  the  morning, 
rnadame  fell  into  a  swoon,  and  stayed  in  a  swoon — from  pure 
agony  at  his  absence,  mind — until  he  came  back.  And  the 
best  of  this  story  is,  that  it  is  no  legend,  but  is  related  as  a 
grave  historical  fact.  Take  it  as  an  illustration  of  the  present 
wilted  lily  look  of  Mrs.  Lewis  Nolan."  • 

Her  listener  joins  in  her  satirical  laugh,  but  there  is  no  satire 
in  his. 

"  Mr.  Nolan  is  a  fortunate  man,"  he  says,  a  certain  earnest- 
ness underlying  his  laugh.  "  It  is  only  the  second  time  I  have 
seen  this  lady,  but  it  is  the  sort  of  face  one  does  not  see  often, 
nor  easily  forgot,  once  seen." 

Katherine  lifts  her  eyebrows  sceptically,  and  turns  away.  He 
is  a  rather  distinguished  personage  this,  who  holds  a  place  of 
honor  at  her  right-hand,  but  these  talented  people,  who  make 
a  stir  in  the  world,  are  sadly,  lacking  in  tact  too.  Think  of  his 
moaning  aloud  over  another  woman,  to  the  Lady  Fair  of  the 
feast,  the  bride  who  deigns  to  tlirt  with  him  in  her  bridal  hour. 

"Can  there  be  anything  more  than  her  husband's  going  away, 
the  matter  ?  "  Katherine  thinks,  curiously.  "  She  is  greatly 
changed,  half  her  good  looks  are  gone.  But  no — such  a  pattern 
pair  couldn't  quarrel,  it  is  a  case  of  '  two  hearts  that  beat  as 
one,'  and  all  that.  How  does  it  feel,  1  wonder,  to  love  any 
human  being  to  the  verge  of  lunacy  like  that  ?  If  Lewis  gets 
a  bullet  through  his  heart  out  there,  they  may  order  the  cortin 
big  enough  for  both 

"  'And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a  red  rose, 
And  out  of  Lord  Lovell's  a  brier  !' " 

i 

hums  Mrs.  Vanderdonck  under  her  breath,  as  she  goes  up  to 
her  maiden  bovver  to  change  her  dress.  But  there  is  a  touch 
of  envy  in  her  mockery,  too.  After  all,  it  must  be  pleasant  to 
love  and  look  up  to  one's  husband,  if  one  has  not  to  buy  that 
pleas-iire  at  the  cost  of  all  the  rest  of  life's  golden  gifts. 

Mrs.  Vanderdonck,  accompanied  of  course  by  Mr.  Vander 


402         "77*  fS   GOOD   TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUE.n 

donck,  takes  the  steamer  at  noon  and  starts  on  her  bridal  tour 
to  Europe,  \yhere  can  she  not,  in  these  first  demented  days, 
drag  her  old  millionaire  ? 

For  Mrs.  Nolan,  she  goes  back  to  her  lonely  life.  An  inexpres- 
sibly lonely  life  ;  days  that  are  one  long  heart-ache,  and  "  tears 
o'  nights  instead  of  slumber."  All  the  first  passion  of  anguish 
and  despair  has  passed,  and  a  hopeless  night  of  sorrow  seems 
closing  in.  In  her  heart  there  is  no  anger  against  him,  no  touch 
of  blame  ;  it  is  simply  that  a  gulf  has  opened  between  them, 
which  must  forever  hold  them  apart.  If  his  sin  had  been  the 
same,  and  the  victim  any  other  among  all  the  men  of  earth,  it 
would  not  have  parted  them  for  a  moment.  She  would  have 
grieved,  and  pitied,  and  prayed,  and  loved  him  with  a  deeper 
tenderness.  If  the  sin  itself  had  been  any  other — ay,  any — 
she  could  have  forgiven  almost  without  an  effort,  though  the  sin 
itself  broke  her  heart.  Let  his  guilt  have  been  what  it  might, 
she  would  have  clung  to  him  through  reproach  and  disgrace ; 
though  all  the  world  stood  up  and  reviled  him,  she  would  have 
stood  proudly  by  his  side,  more  happy  to  share  shame  with  him, 
than  glory  with  another.  But  this  was  different.  It  was  her 
'  brother '  he  had  killed,  her  father  whose  death  he  had 
hastened  ;  to  that  dead  father  she  stood  pledged  to  see  justice 
done  for  the  deed.  It  seemed  to  her  that  that  father  must  rise 
up  and  denounce  her,  if  she  took  him  back.  And  his  crime  had 
been  terrible  ;  a  crime  not  to  go  unpunished  either  by  heaven 
or  earth.  "  Whoso  sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man  shall  his 
blood  be  shed ;  for  in  God's  image  made  He  man." 

The  sentence  stood  clear.  Murder  had  not  been  intended, 
but  murder  had  been  committed,  and  the  innocent  must  suffer 
with  the  guilty.  Could  she  ever  bear  to  be  caressed  by  the 
hand  that  had  flung  Bertie  Vaughan  to  his  death  ?  No — their 
sentence  was  spoken — held  asunder  their  lives  long. 

Seven  weeks  had  elapsed  since  his  departure,  and  no  letters 
had  passed  between  them.  What  was  there  for  either  to  say  ? 
She  carried  the  solemn  farewell  letter  close  to  her  heart ;  she 
read  it  again  and  again,  with  eyes  blinded  in  tears  ;  but  she 
never  answered.  He  wrote  to  his  mother,  and  those  brief 
notes  his  mother  brought  to  her  at  once.  The  wife  kept  them 
all,  as  we  keep  relics  of  the  dead.  Her  name  was  not  men- 
tioned in  them — he  was  only  urgent  for  news  of  them  all — all, 
even  the  most  minute.  His  mother  and  sister  answered,  and 
complied  ;  Sydney  was  the  burden  of  their  replies.  She  was 
well — that  is  to  say,  not  ailing — and  bore  up  better  than  the; 


"IT  IS   GOOD    TO  BE   LOYAL  AND   TRUE."        403 

had  at  first  expected.  But  the  mother's  heart  ached  as  she 
wrote  ;  and  the  image  of  her  son's  wife  arose  before  her,  pallid, 
wasted,  sivnleless,  the  shadow  of  her  former  self.  A  widow 
without  the  weeds  ;  the  deeper  mourning  of  the  heart  stamped 
on  the  face  for  all  who  ran  to  read.  But  she  was  very  quiet, 
pathetically  quiet,  no  duty  was  undone,  no  daily  task  neglected. 
She  read  to  Lucy,  played  with  Teddy,  and  was  bountiful  to  the 
pcor  at  her  gates,  giving  to  all  who  asked  with  both  hands,  and 
keeping  her  heart-break  for  the  night,  and  the  solitude  of  hei 
own  room. 

It  was  close  upon  Christmas.  The  days  were  short,  cold,  and 
dark,  as  Sydney  Nolan's  own  life.  Teddy  was  clamoring  about 
"  presents,"  and  propounding  unanswerable  conundrums  as  to 
what  that  mythical  saint,  Santa  Glaus — no  myth,  but  a  jovial 
reality  to  Master  Ted — might  bring.  The  child  was  the  one 
bright  spot  in  Sydney's  life ;  it  is  impossible  to  stagnate,  even  in 
the  profoundest  grief,  with  a  jolly,  romping,  shouting,  noisy, 
bouncing  "  human  boy,"  as  Mr.  Chadband  hath  it,  in  the 
house,  whose  lusty  yells  ring  from  mansard  to  cellar. 

Mrs.  Nolan  was  very  busy  ;  there  was  no  end  of  surprises  to 
buy  for  him,  a  package  to  send  to  mamma  out  in  her  Chicago 
school,  mamma  who  had  promised  to  come  and  spend  New 
Year's  week  with  her  boy.  There  were  mother's  presents,  and 
Lucy's ;  there  were  hosts  of  poor  people  to  supply  with 
turkeys,  and  coals,  and  blankets,  and  beef ;  and  last,  but  oh  ! 
not  least,  there  was  a  box  to  go  to  Virginia,  to  one  whose 
Christmas  it  wrung  the  wife's  heart  to  think  of — something  to 
let  him  know  that,  although  separation  was  written  between 
them,  love  would  last  the  same  to  the  end. 

The  day  before  Christmas  eve  Mrs.  Nolan,  with  Teddy  as 
attendant  cavalier,  drove  down  Broadway,  shopping.  Master 
Frederick  Carew  delighted  in  this  sort  of  thing  ;  the  shops  and 
the  people  were  never-ending  sources  of  jubilee.  He  had  but 
one  unsatisfied  ambition,  and  that  was  to  mount  the  perch  be- 
side coachman  Thompson,  in  top  boots  and  gilt  hat-band, 
and  sit  with  his  small  arms  folded  across  his  small  chest,  a  la 
footman  William.  But  this  Auntie  Sydney  would  in  no  wise 
allow,  and  Teddy  glued  his  diminutive  nose  to  the  glass,  while 
auntie  got  out  and  went  into  the  big  stores  on  Broadway. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  the  carriage  was  standing  in  front 
of  a  milliner's  establishment;  Mrs.  Nolan,  who  had  been  for 
half  an  hour  in  the  place,  was  crossing  the  pavement  to  re- 
enter,  when  one  of  two  gentlemen,  sauntering  up  arm-in-arm, 


404        "IT  IS   GOOD  TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE." 

stopped  suddenly  with  a  look  of  startled  recognition.  Instantly 
an  eye-glass  went  up  to  two  handsome,  short-sighted  blue  eyes, 
in  a  long  surprised  stare. 

"  Home,  Thompson,"  said  the  lady's  clear  voice  ;  and  the 
carriage  flashed  past  on  the  instant. 

The  lady  had  not  seen  him,  and  the  hero  of  the  eye-glass  was 
left  blankly  staring. 

i  "  Well !  "  his  companion  laughed,  "  this  is  something  new  for 
you,  isn't  it?  I  thought  you  belonged  to  the  nil  admirari 
class,  my  dear  fellow,  and  did  not  lose  your  head  at  sight.  A 
very  pretty  woman,  no  doubt,  but  a  trifle  too  pale  and  fragile 
for  my  English  taste.  Do  you  know  her?" 

"  Do  I  know  her  ? "  repeats  the  knight  of  the  eye-glass 
blankly.  Then  a  sudden  inspiration  seems  to  seize  him. 
"  Wait  here  one  moment,  my  dear  Somerset,"  he  exclaims,  "  I 
must  go  into  the  shop  and  ask." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  says  his  companion,  and  laughs  again ;  "  this  is 
something  new." 

The  other  enters  the  great  millinery  emporium,  advances  to 
a  shop  girl — I  beg  her  pardon — sales-lady,  and  removes  his 
hat. 

"  Will  you  have  the  great  kindness,  madam,"  he  says,  with 
that  rising  inflection,  that  flattening  of  the  vowels,  that  instantly 
bespeaks  the  Englishman  to  American  ears,  "  to  tell  me  the 
name  of  the  lady  who  has  just  left — the  lady  in  black  and 
sealskins." 

The  sales-lady,  a  pretty,  piquant  girl,  as  most  New  York 
sales-ladies  are,  looks  at  him,  a  certain  mischievous  sparkle  in 
her  bright  black  eyes.  But  the  gentleman  is  perfectly  serious 
and  respectful.  He  is  a  slender  man  of  medium  heignt,  an 
unmistakably  military  air,  with  a  handsome,  light-complexioned 
face,  slightly  bronzed,  and  a  beautiful  blonde  beard  and  mus- 
tache of  most  silken  softness. 

"That  lady  is  Mrs.  Nolan,  sir,"  responded  the  girl,  her 
sharp,  quick  accent  contrasting  with  his  slow,  gentle  manner  of 

speech.      "  Her  address  is  No.  126  West th  street." 

^  "Ah,  thank  you  very  much,"  says  the  gentleman,  replacing 
his  hat  with  a  slight  bow,  and  the  sharp  young  Yankee  sales- 
lady sees  a  look  of  disappointment  pass  over  the  Englishman's 
face  as  he  leaves  the  store. 

His  friend  is  waiting,  and  resumes  his  arm,  and  their  walk. 

''Well,"  he  says,  "  I  hope  your  curiosity  has  been  gratified. 
Who  is  she  ?  " 


°/r  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRIE."        405 

"She  is  Mrs.  Nolan  ;  but,  before  she  was  Mrs.  Nolan,  1  am 
almost  positive  she  was  Miss  Owenson.  She  has  changed  con- 
siclerably ;  it  is  five  or  six  years  since  I  saw  her  last,  but  surely 
it  is  the  same." 

He  says  this  musingly,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  com- 
panion. 

"  I  have  her  address,"  he  goes  on,  producing  his  tablets.  "I 
think  I  will  call  upon  her  at  once.  The  matter  which  has 
brought  me  to  New  York  is  one  in  which  I  think  she  may  help 
me.  If  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  take  an  omnibus  and  try  my 
luck." 

"Certainly,  my  dear  fellow,"  responds  his  friend,  politely, 
but  with  a  puzzled  look  ;  and  the  owner  of  the  eye-glass  hails 

an  up-town  stage,  gets  in,  and  is  jolted  toward  126  West th 

street.  He  finds  the  number  and  rings  the  bell.  Jim — shiny 
and  black,  an  eruption  of  buttons  all  over  his  sable  breast,  a 
beaming  smile  on  his  ebony  face — admits  him.  and  takes  his 
card.  His  mistress  has  just  returned,  has  removed  her  bonnet 
and  jacket,  and  is  sitting,  tired  and  listless,  before  the  fire. 
She  takes  the  proffered  card,  with  a  half-weary,  half-impatient 
sigh,  but  the  moment  she  looks  at  it  all  listlessness  vanishes. 
She  sits  upright  and  stares  at  it  as  blankly  as  half  an  hour 
before  its  owner  had  stared  at  herself;  for  the  name  she  reads 
is  "  Frederic  Denraith  Carew." 

She  sits  stunned.  Mr.  Carew  here !  She  has  never  thought 
of  that.  Has  he  discovered  that  Teddy — but,  no ;  he  is  not 
aware  of  Teddy's  existence.  Rare  chance  has  driven  him  to 
her.  No  doubt  he  is  in  search  of  his  wife,  and  what  is  she  to 
say  to  him  ?  Tell  the  truth  she  cannot,  tell  an  untruth  she  will 
not.  She  stands  pledged  to  Cyrilla  to  keep  the  secret  of  her 
hiding-place  a  secret  from  all ;  and  yet  if  Cyrilla's  husband  has 
forgiven  her  and  has  come  back  in  search  of  her,  how  is  she  to 
send  him  away  disappointed  ? 

She  sits  still,  blankly  looking  at  the  card,  not  in  the  least 
knowing  what  she  shall  say  or  do. 

"  Gen'elman's  in  the  drawing  room,  missis,"  hints  black  Jim, 
thinking  his  mistress  has  studied  that  card  long  enough. 

She  rises,  with  a  bewildered  feeling,  and  goes  down.  Mr. 
Carew,  hat  in  hand,  stands  up  a-nd  bows,  and  in  spite  of  the 
golden  tan,  in  spite  of  the  profuse  blonde  beard,  she  recognizes 
him  instantly. 

"  Mr.  Carew,"  she  says,  and  comes  forwarl,  holding  out  her 
hand. 


406         "/r  IS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND    TRUE" 

"  I  have  not  been  mistaken,"  he  rejoins,  sr.iiling ;  "  I 
thought  I  was  not,  although  your  new  name  puzzled  me  for  a 
moment.  That  you  are  married  was  news  to  me  ;  and,  late  in 
the  day  although  it  may  be,  permit  me  to  offer  my  felicitations." 

She  bows,  and  the  faint  flush  t.iat  his  coming  has  brought 
into  her  face  fades  into  sad  paleness. 

"  I  saw  you,  not  an  hour  ago,  on  Broadway,"  continues  Mr. 
Carew,  "and  took  the  liberty  of  inquiring  your  address,  and  of 
following  you  at  once.  Need  I  say,  my  dear  Mrs.  Nolan,  that 
my  errand  to  New  York  is  to  find  my  wife  ?  " 

She  plays  nervously  with  her  watch-chain,  and  again  a  faint 
color  flickers  and  fades  in  her  face.  The  serious  blue  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  note  it. 

"  You  were  always  her  best  friend.  She  never  cared  to  make 
many  friends,  poor  Cyrilla  !  but  she  loved  and  trusted  you.  If 
any  one  could  help  me  in  my  search,  I  knew  you  were  that  one  ; 
and  I  am  sure,  if  you  have  the  power,  you  also  have  the  will." 

But  Mrs.  Nolan,  looping  and  unlooping  that  slender  cable  of 
dull  gold,  does  not  reply. 

"  During  the  past  four  years,"  pursues  Mr.  Carew,  with  a 
grave  earnestness  of  manner  that  becomes  him,  "  I  have  been 
in  India.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  left  Canada  in  a  very  reckless 
and  desperate  frame  of  mind " 

A  faint  smile  flickers,  in  spite  of  herself,  over  Sydney's  lips, 
at  the  thought  of  placid  Freddy  Carew,  "  reckless  and  desper- 
ate." 

"  I  exchanged  and  went  to  India,"  goes  on  the  gentleman, 
who  does  not  notice  the  smile,  and  who  is  in  profound  earnest 
himself.  "  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  forget  my  wife,  to  ban- 
ish her  from  my  heart,  to  see  her  no  more,  come  what  might. 
In  the  first  heat  of  anger  this  seemed  easy;  when  anger  cooled, 
and  I  found  myself  fairly  in  for  it,  I  discovered  that  forgetful- 
ness  was  impossible.  I  saw  my  folly,  my  wrong,  even,  when  it 
was  too  late,  in  deserting  her,  in  throwing  her  on  the  world,  a 
forsaken  wife,  and  I  would  have  given  worlds  to  undo  it.  But 
it  could  not  be  undone — all  I  could  do  I  did.  I  wrote  to  Mon- 
treal, and  found  out  she  had  been  disinherited  by  her  aunt,  had 
quitted  Canada,  had  been  sick  in  Boston  hospital,  had  been  pro- 
vided with  funds  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  McKelpin,  and  had 
then  disappeared.  All  my  efforts  to  learn  further  have  been 
useless.  I  would  have  written  to  you,  but  your  address  I  did 
not  know.  I  will  not  try  to  tell  you  what  I  have  suffered  in 
those  years,  thinking  of  my  poor  girl,  deserted  friendless,  alone. 


•«/r  fS   GOOD    TO  BE  LOYAL  AND   TRUE."        407 

It  half  maddened  me  at  rimes.  Then  a  sudden  change  in  my 
fortunes  came.  My  uncle,  the  late  Lord  Denraith,  died,  and 
remembered  me  in  the  most  handsome  manner  in  4iis  will.  I 
immediately  sold  out,  returned  to  England,  and  from  thence 
here.  I  only  landed  two  days  ago,  and  it  seems  as  if  Providence 
had  interposed  in  my  behalf,  in  our  signal  rencon  tre  on  Broad- 
way. If  Cyrilla  would  go  to  any  one  in  her  loneliness,  it  would 
be  to  you.  Tell  me  where  to  find  her  ;  I  have  long  ago  forgiven 
all,  and  I  will  owe  you  a  debt  I  can  never  repay." 

What  shall  she  say  ?  His  earnestness,  his  loyalty,  his  un- 
changed love,  have  touched  her  to  the  heart ;  she  can  gauge  the 
measure  of  his  feeling  and  his  longing  by  her  own.  Will  it  in- 
deed be  a  breach  of  faith  if  she  tells  ?  Will  Cyrilla  be  angry  ? 
In  any  case  she  has  promised,  and  cannot  break  her  word.  She 
sits  silent,  distressed.  She  knows  he  can  read  in  her  face  her 
reluctance  to  speak,  and  a  great  and  sudden  fear  blanches  his. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  he  says.  "  You  look  troubled.  Mrs. 
Nolan,  my  wife  is  not  dead  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  "  she  cries  out.  "  Heaven  forbid  !  She 
is  alive,  and  safe,  and  well " 

She  does  not  finish.     Fate  is  coming  to  the  front,  and  taking 
the  matter  in  her  own  hands.     There  is  a  shout  outside,  the 
door  flies  open,  and  there  bounces  in  briskly  Master  Teddy,  all 
azure  velvet,  white  ruffle,  and  gold  curls,  calling  as  he  comes  : 
.     "Auntie  Sydney  !  " 

Auntie  Sydney  sits  with  clasped  hands,  her  breath  taken  away 
by  this  dramatic  denouement.  Teddy  espies  the  stranger,  comes 
to  a  stand-still,  and  surveys  him  with  two  dauntless  black  eyes. 

Mr.  Carew  smiles  in  a  friendly  way,  but  something  in  the  lus- 
trous black  eyes  seems  to  disconcert  him  too. 

"  Come  here,"  he  says,  and  extends  the  hand  of  acquaint- 
anceship. 

Teddy,  never  averse  to  adding  to  his  list  of  friends,  comes 
promptly,  and  permits  himself  to  be  lifted  upon  the  gentleman's 
knee.  Sydney  sits  motionless,  perfectly  pale. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Carew,  the  inevitable  first 
question  always,  to  a  child. 

The  dark,  bright  eyes  look  up  at  him  with  an  answering  smile, 
and  the  prompt  response  comes, 

"Teddy 


A  NEW  YEAR   GIFT. 
CHAPTER  XX. 

A     NEW     YEAR      GIFT. 

need  of  one  word  further — no  need  of  more  than 
one  startled  glance  at  Mrs.  Nolan's  agitated  face. 
Frederic  Carew  comprehends  that  it  is  his  son  he  holds 
on  his  knee.  He  grows  quite  white  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  stoops  and  kisses  the  bright,  pretty  face.  It  is  a  moment  be- 
fore he  speaks,  and  then  with  a  tremor  of  the  voice  that  Sydney 
detects.  Her  own  eyes  are  full  of  tears. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Teddy  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Five  years,"  promptly  responds  Teddy  ?  "  ain't  I,  Auntie 
Syd?" 

"  And  where  is  mamma  all  this  time  ?" 

"Oh!  mamma's  away — ever  so  far  away,"  replies  Teddy, 
with  a  vague  wave  of  his  arm ;  "  out  there,  where  the  cars 
come  from.  Me  and  mamma  came  to  New  York  in  the  cars." 
Master  Carew's  powers  of  speech,  as  you  may  perceive,  have 
improved.  "  And  I  have  got  a  wockin-hoss,  and  a  goat-carriage, 
and  a  gun  ;  and  Santa  Glaus  is  going  to  bring  me  heaps  of  things 
on  Christmas  Eve — ain't  he,  Auntie  Sydney  ?  To-morrow's 
Christmas  Eve,"  runs  on  Teddy,  imparting  all  this  information 
without  once  drawing  his  breath,  "  and  I'segoin'  to  hang  up  my 
stockin'  and  Santa  Claus  will  come  down  the  chimbly  and  fill  it. 
Ain't  it  hunky  ?  " 

"  Santa  Claus  has  brought  you  something  already,  Teddy, 
that  you  didn't  expect." 

"  What?  "  demands  Teddy,  opening  his  ebon  eyes. 

"  Your  father.  I  think  you  must  be  my  little  boy,  Teddy 
Hasn't  mamma  told  you  you  had  a  papa  somewhere  ?  " 

"Yes,"  says  Teddy,  with  an  intelligent  nod;  "papa's  away 
in  England — ain't  it  England,  Auntie  Syd?  and  mamma  don't 
know  when  he's  comin'  back.  I  say,  '  Bless  papa,  and  mamma 
and  Auntie  Sydney,  and  Uncle  Lewis,'  every  night,  don't  I, 
Auntie  Syd  ?  Is  you  my  papa  ?  "  asked  Ted,  calmly,  looking 
up  in  his  new  friend's  face. 

"  I  am  your  papa,  Teddy.  Won't  you  give  me  a  kiss  for  the 
news  ?  " 

Teddy  gives  the  kiss,  and   receives  the  information  without 


A  NEW  YEAR  GIFT.  409 

any  undue  excitement.  He  accepts  his  long-lost  parent  with 
composure,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  proceeds  to  inform 
him  that  Uncle  Lewis  has  gone  to  the  war,  and  how  greatly 
that  untoward  event  has  put  him  (the  informant)  out.  This, 
and  a  great  deal  more  varied  and  miscellaneous  informa- 
tion, Fred  Carew,  junior,  pours  into  the  listening  ear  of  Fred 
Carew,  senior,  until  Sydney  finds  that  the  first  shock,  half- 
painful,  half-pleased,  is  over,  and  that  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
a  frank  confession  of  the  whole. 

"  That  will  do,  Teddy,"  she  interposes.  "  Kiss  papa  again 
and  run  away.  Auntie  Sydney  wants  to  talk  to  him,  and  it  is 
time  for  Teddy's  supper." 

The  last  clause  of  this  address  is  effective.  Teddy  is  a  frank 
gourmand — is  he  not  a  man-child  ? — any  one  might  win  his 
heart  through  his  stomach.  He  slips  like  an  eel  off  papa's 
knee,  and  darts  away  in  search  of  the  commissariat. 

Mr.  Carew  and  Mrs.  Nolan  are  left  alone,  the  lady  visibly 
embarrassed,  the  gentleman  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  a  look 
in  his  eyes  that  makes  Sydney's  whole  sympathetic  heart  go 
out  to  him. 

"  There  is  not  much  for  you  to  confess,"  he  says  ;  "  that 
much  I  know  you  will  confess.  Need  I  tell  you  that  if  I  had 
known  this,  nothing  would  have  held  me  away.  I  owe  you 
more  than  I  can  say ;  thanks  I  will  not  attempt.  My  wife 
has,  indeed,  found  that  rare  treasure,  a  true  friend,  in  you." 

"Oh,  nush  !  "  Sydney  exclaims;  "i  have  done  nothing — • 
nothing.  The  favor  has  been  done  me  in  giving  me  Teddy 
Yes,  Mr.  Carew,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  may,  not  where  Cyrilla 
is  at  present,  for  that  I  have  promised  not  to  tell,  but  every- 
thing else  as  she  has  told  it  to  me." 

Then  Sydney,  in  that  agitated  voice,  begins  and  relates  the 
episode  of  Cyrilla' s  unexpected  coming  with  Teddy,  and  repeats 
the  story  Cyrilla  has  told.  Of  her  intense  longing  for  the  stage, 
and  of  her  conquering  that  longing  because  he  had  once  said 
it  was  no  fitting  life  for  her,  or  rather,  that  she  was  not  fitted 
for  the  life. 

"  I  will  not  betray  trust,"  she  says' ;  "you  shall  not  go  to  her, 
but  she  shall  come  to  you.  As  you  have  waited  so  long,  Mr. 
Carew,  you  shall  wait  one  week  more.  Cyrilla  has  promised 
to  come  and  spend  New  Year  with  me  and  see  Teddy,  whom 
she  has  not  seen  for  three  months.  You  shall  wait,  Mr.  Carew. 
Meantime,  I  shall  expect  you  to  come  and  see  Teddy  very  con- 
stantly, and  if  by  chance  you  should  happen  in  some  day  when 
18 


410  A  NEW  YEAR    GIFT. 

Mrs.  Carew  is  here — why  I  shall  not  be  to  blame — you  under 
stand?" 

She  gives  him  her  hand,  with  a  reflection  of  Sydney's  own 
bright,  saucy  smile,  and  Fred  Carew  lifts  that  little  hand,  and 
kisses  it. 

"  I  cannot  thank  you,"  he  says,  his  low  voice  husky,  his 
honest,  blue  eyes  dim  ;  "  you  are,  indeed,  a  friend.  I  will  do 
whatever  you  say,  but  it  will  be  the  longest  week  of  my  life." 

So  Mr.  Carew  departs,  and  Mrs.  Nolan  goes  upstairs,  and 
surprises  Master  Ted  by  suddenly  catching  him  in  her  arms, 
and  kissing  and  crying  over  him. 

"  Oh  !  my  Teddy — my  Teddy,"  she  says,  "  am  I  to  lose  you, 
too  ?  " 

This  performance  on  the  part  of  Auntie  Syd  does  not  sur- 
prise Teddy — indeed  nothing  ever  does  surprise  that  youthful 
philosopher  very  greatly — but  it  discomposes  his  feelings  and 
dampens  his  ruffle,  and  he  cavalierly  cuts  it  short. 

"  I  isn't  goin'  to  get  lost,"  says  Teddy,  eying  Auntie  Syd- 
ney's tears  with  extreme  disfavor ;  "  what's  you  cryin'  'bout 
now.  'Cause  my  papa's  gone  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,  but  because  I  am  afraid  your  papa  will  take 
you,  Teddy." 

"  Will  he  take  me  to  Uncle  Lewis  ?  "  demands  Teddy,  bright- 
ening up,  '"cause  I  want  to  go  to  Uncle  Lewis.  Auntie  Syd, 
why  don't  Uncle  Lewis  come  back  ?  " 

It  is  a  daily  question  on  the  child's  lips,  and  it  wrings  the 
wife's  heart  to  hear  it.  Teddy's  one  grand  passion,  outside  of 
sweetmeats,  is  Uncle  Lewis  ;  never  once  has  that  devotion 
flinched.  He  has  even  howled  at  times  over  his  prolonged  ab- 
sence, and  tears  and  howling  are  weaknesses  sturdy  little  Ted, 
as  a  rule,  disdains.  Mr.  Carew  accepts  Mrs.  Nolan's  invita- 
tion, comes  every  day,  and  spends  many  hours  with  her  and  his 
boy.  Ted  fraternizes  with  his  father  in  an  off-hand,  indignant 
sort  of  way — he  is  very  well,  this  new  papa  of  his,  Teddy  seems 
to  consider,  his  presents  are  many  and  handsome,  but  he  is  not 
to  be  compared  to  Uncle  Lewis.  To  sit,  while  Mrs.  Nolan's 
needle  flies,  and  talk  to  her  of  the  old  days,  and  "Beauty,"  and 
their  runaway  honeymoon,  their  brief  married  life,  and  the  still 
older  vagabond  days  in  London,  when  Jack  Hendrick's  dingy 
lodgings  were  brightened  and  glorified  by  the  sunshiny  presence 
of"  Little  Beauty  Hendrick,"  is  the  delight  of  Frederic  Carew's 
present  life.  Of  that  dreadful  day  when  they  parted,  he  says 
little — that  little  to  make  excuses  for  Cyrilla,  not  very  logical 


A  NEW  YEAR   GIFT.  411 

perhaps,  but  whi  :h  do  Sydney  good  to  hear.  In  the  intervals, 
for  he  cannot  always  sit  at  Mrs.  Nolan's  side  and  talk  "  Beauty," 
he  goes  forth  with  his  little  son,  drives  him  through  the  park  and 
the  city  streets,  and  becomes  a  frequenter  of  toy  stores  and 
bakeries  to  the  most  alarming  extent ;  and  Teddy  is  in  a  fair  way 
of  being  killed  by  kindness  and  confectionery. 

A  new  interest  has  been  added  to  Sydney's  Christmas,  for- 
tunately for  herself,  for  the  great  troubles  of  life  come  most 
keenly  home  to  all  of  us  on  this  joyful  anniversary  of  "  Peace 
on  earth,  good-will  toward  men."  All  the  presents  are  bought, 
two  packages  are  sent — one  to  Virginia,  without  word  or  mes- 
sage, for  if  she  speaks  at  all  she  will  say  too  much — the  other  to 
Chicago,  with  a  cheerful  little  letter,  which  ends  thus : 

"  I  send  you  a  little  Christmas  token  which  I  know  you  will 
value  for  my  sake,  and  I  have  something  here  you  will  value 
far  more,  for  a  New  Year  gift.  Do  not  fail  to  come,  let  nothing 
detain  you.  Ted  longs  to  see  mamma  " — this  last  a  pure  fiction, 
for  Ted  has  expressed  no  desire  whatever  on  the  subject — "and 
Sydney  longs  to  kiss  Cyrilla." 

This  was  enigmatical.  Mrs.  Carew  knit  her  handsome  black 
brows  over  Mrs.  Nolan's  Christmas  letter. 

"  Something  you  will  value  far  more  for  a  New  Year  gift " — it 
was  not  Sydney's  way  to  allude  in  that  manner  to  her  own  gen 
erous  gifts.  She  was  generous — the  little  packet  contained  a 
cable  chain,  with  a  large  locket  suspended,  set  with  rubies,  and 
within  Ted's  picture,  and  a  curl  of  his  amber  hair.  Cyrilla 
kissed  the  fair  child's  face,  and  the  black,  brilliant  eyes  grew 
soft  and  dewy.  "  Dear  little  Syd,"  she  said,  "  it  is  a  heart  of 
gold." 

Her  present  came  on  Christmas  Day.  The  school  had 
broken  up  until  the  second  week  of  January,  and  on  the  third 
day  after,  Cyrilla  Carew,  looking  handsome,  and  stately,  and 
elegant,  with  much  more  the  air  of  a  grand  dame  than  a  poor 
governess,  took  the  train  for  New  York.  Cyrilla's  splendid  vi- 
tality was  something  to  marvel  at ;  her  health  was  perfect,  her 
five  years  of  trouble  and  toil  had  altered  her  character  but  not 
her  beauty.  That  had  but  grown  ripe  and  perfect ;  maturity 
had  but  a  charm  and  sweetness  of  its  own.  Cyrilla  Carew,  the 
teacher,  was  a  far  nobler  and  more  beautiful  woman  than  Cyrilla 
Hendrick,  Miss  Dormer's  wayward,  wilful  heiress  and  niece. 

She  tried  to  read  as  the  train  flew  along,  but  in  vain.  The 
old,  wild  love  of  freedom  was  strong  still,  and  for  a  week  she 
was  free — iree  to  see  her  boy,  to  be  with  Sydney,  and  talk  o( 


412  A  NEW  YEAR  GIFT. 

the  dear  old  days  forever  gone.  Where  was  he  this  Christmas  ? 
she  thought,  with  a  sharp  contraction  of  the  heart.  Did  he  ever 
think  of  her  now  ?  Was  she  remembered  only  in  cold,  slow, 
pitiless  anger  ?  or  worse,  not  remembered  at  all  ?  Slow  to 
wrath,  Fred  Carew  was  slow  also  to  forgive,  and  hers  had  been 
an  offence  few  men  would  have  found  easy  to  pardon.  Oh,  if 
the  past  could  but  come  over  again,  and  she  were  free  once 
more  to  choose  between  Miss  Dormer's  money  and  Fred  Carew' s 
love. 

Men  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  there  quite  alone,  her  book  lying 
unopened  in  her  lap,  her  dark,  brooding  eyes  fixed  on  the 
flitting,  wintry  landscape,  and  turned  and  looked  again.  She 
was  the  sort  of  woman  men  always  look  at,  but  the  coquettish 
spirit  was  dead  within  her,  with  many  other  evil  things. 

The  long,  dreary,  weary  railway  journey  ended  at  last,  the 
train  rushed  thunderously  into  the  New  York  depot.  There  on 
the  platform,  as  she  had  once  before  awaited  her  in  the  Wych- 
cliffe  station,  stood  Sydney.  Then  her  attendant  had  been  Ber- 
tie Vaughan  ;  now  she  stood  alone. 

"  Darling  Cy  !  " 

"Dearest  Sydney!"     Kisses,  smiles,  ejaculations,  etc.,  etc. 

"  How  well  you  are  looking,  Cyrilla  ! "  Sidney  cries  out  in 
admiration.  "  You  are  a  perfect  picture  of  health  and  happi- 
ness." 

"I  am  perfectly  well  in  health,"  Cyrilla  answers,  gravely; 
"and  yes— in  a  way — I  am  happy,  too.  But  you,  dear  child, 
how  changed  you  are  since  last  September." 

"  Changed— yes,"  Sydney  says,  and  the  anguish  of  memory  is 
in  face  and  voice. 

"Your  husband  has  joined  the  army?"  says  Cyrilla,  look- 
ing at  her  with  those  far-seeing,  thoughtful,  dark  eyes.  She 
makes  a  motion  of  assent ;  not  even  to  Cyrilla  can  she  speak 
of  him. 

"I  would  have  brought  Ted,"  she  observes,  as  they  fly  along 
through  the  twilight  streets,  "  but — well,  the  fact  is,  the  little  in- 
grate  was  so  taken  up  with  a  gentleman  friend  of  mine,  who  has 
lately  won  his  fickle  affections,  that  he  declined  to  come.  Ah  ! 
Cy,  you  don't  know  what  a  blessing  Teddy  has  been  to  me. 
What  shall  I  do  when  you  take  him  away  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  years  before  that  catastrophe  happens,"  says  Mrs. 
Carew,  with  a  half  smile,  half  sigh.  "I  seem  to  be  a?  far  off  a 
home  as  ever." 

They  reach  the  house ;  Sydney's  heart  is  beating  fast  with 


A  NEW    YEAR    GIFT.  413 

excitement.  Cyrilla  is  eager,  but  calm.  She  leads  her  to  an 
upper  room. 

"  Ted  is  here,"  she  says  ;  "  go  in,"  and  flits  past  and  away. 

Cyrilla  enters.  One  pale  star  of  gas  alone  lights  the  apart- 
ment, and  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  huge  Noah's  ark  between 
his  sturdy  legs,  and  about  a  million,  more  or  less,  it  seems  to  his 
mamma,  birds  and  beasts  around  him,  sits  Master  Teddy 
absorbed. 

"My  boy  !  my  Teddy  !"  cries  Teddy's  mamma,  and  Ted  is 
suddenly  caught  up  and  hugged.  "  Oh,  my  darling,  how  good 
it  seems  to  see  you  again  !  " 

"  There  !  "  exclaims  Teddy  ;  "  you'se  upset  my  fellafant  and 
broke  his  trunk.  Has  you  brought  me  anysing  in  your  pocket, 
mamma  ? " 

"Little  gourmand!  Something  in  my  pocket  is  all  you 
care  tor.  Are  you  not  glad  to  see  mamma  at  all  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  1'se  glad,"  Teddy  responds,  in  his  calmest  accents, 
and  all  the  while  with  a  regretful  eye  upon  the  prostrate  ele- 
phant. "  Will  you  help  me  put  my  beastseses  in  the  ark  again  ? 
I  ca<n  get  'em  out  easy,  but  1  can't  get  'em  in." 

Cyrilla  laughs,  and  goes  down  on  her  knees  and  assists  this 
new  Noah  to  stow  away  his  beasts  ;  then  in  the  midst  of  it  she 
seizes  him  again,  and  a  fresh  shower  of  kisses  are  inflicted  on 
long-suffering  and  victimized  Teddy. 

"  Oh,  my  baby,  my  baby  ! "  she  says  ;  "  what  would  I  do  if  it 
were  not  for  you  !  " 

The  door  behind  her  has  opened,  and  some  one  comes  in, 
pauses  a  second,  and  looks  at  mother  and  son.  Then  : 

"  Are  they  all  for  your  boy,  Beauty  ?"  says  a  quiet  voice  ; 
"have  you  none  left  for  Teddy's  father?" 

There  is  a  wild  cry  that  rings  even  to  the  room  where  Sydney 
sits,  and  thrills  her  to  her  heart's  core.  Cyrilla  springs  to  hei 
feet,  recoils,  and,  pale  as  death,  with  dilated  eyes,  stands  look 
ing  at  her  husband. 

"  It  is  I,  'Rilla,"  he  says,  a  quiver  in  the  familiar  voice.  "  Life 
was  not  worth  living  witnout  you.  My  fault  has  been  that  I 
ever  left  you.  Aly  darling,  come  to  me  and  say  you  forgive 
me." 

"  Forgive  you  I "  she  cries,  with  a  great  joyful  sob  ;  and  then, 
as  the  arms  of  her  lover  fold  about  her,  Cyrilla  Carew  knowi 
tiiat  her  expiation  is  at  an  end. 


4H  "TWO  HANDS   UPON  THE  BREAST." 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

"TWO    HANDS    UPON   THE    BREAST   AND    LABOR    PAST." 

j]T  is  the  hour  for  your  medicine,  dear  Lucy ;  will  you 
take  it  ?  " 

Sydney  Nolan  slips  one  hand  gently  under  the  inva- 
lid's head,  and  with  the  other  holds  the  medicine-glass 
to  her  lips.  Lucy  drinks  it  with  the  grateful  smile  that  has 
grown  habitual,  and  lies  wearily  back  among  her  pillows. 

"  What  hour  is  it  ?  "  she  asks. 

"Nearly  six,  dear.     How  do  you  feel?" 

"  Oh,  so  free  from  pain,  so  peaceful,  so  content.  It  is  like 
Heaven.  Sydney,  has  Sister  Monica  come  ?  " 

"  Sister  Monica  is  down  stairs  with  your  mother  ;  she  will  be 
here  presently.  Is  there  anything  else  you  want,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else.  You  have  been  here  all  day,  Sydney  ? 
Dear,  how  good  you  are,  how  patient,  how  unwearied  in  nurs- 
ing me.  All  these  weeks  you  have  hardly  left  my  bedside  to 
take  needful  rest." 

"  You  must  not  talk,  Lucy  ;  you  are  far  too  weak.  /  good, 
/patient !  Oh,  you  don't  know  !  you  don't  know  !  " 

She  says  it  with  a  stifled  sob,  and  lays  her  face  against  the 
pillow.  She  good,  whose  heart  is  one  wild,  rebellious,  cease- 
less longing  for  what  may  never  be.  She  patient,  whose  life  is 
one  long  cry  of  loss  and  despair. 

"  Oh,"  she  says,  in  that  stifled  voice,  "  what  shall  I  do  when 
you  are  gone  ?  " 

"  I  will  still  be  with  you,  my  sister,"  Lucy  Nolan's  faint  voice 
replies,  "  loving  you,  helping  you,  praying  for  you.  Sydney,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you,  and  I  want  to  say  it  to-night.  Is 
it  you  or  mother  who  is  to  watch  to-night  with  Sister  Monica?" 

"  It  is  I.      Last  night  was  mother's  night,  you  know,  Lucy  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know — poor  mother,"  sighs  Lucy.  "  I  am  a  dread- 
ful trouble  ;  I  always  have  been,  but  she  will  miss  me  when  I 
am  gone.  And  Lewis,  too.  Oh,"  she  cries  out,  and  a  spasm 
crosses  her  white  face;  "if  I  could  only  see  Lewis  once  before 
I  die." 

Sydney  clenches  her  hands.  That  cry,  wrung  from  Lucy's 
soul,  is  but  the  echo  of  that  which  never  ceases  in  her  own. 

"  But  it  is  not  to  be,"  she  goes  on,  the  old  patient  look  of 


"TWO  HANDS   UPON  THE  BREAST."  415 

pei feet  resignation  returning.  "He  knows  best.  I  will  try 
and  sleep  now,  and  by-and  by,  when  I  am  stronger,  I  will  talk 
to  you,  Sydney.  Dear  little  sister,  what  a  comfort  you  have 
been  to  me  from  the  first.  Kiss  me,  please." 

Something  besides  the  kiss  falls  on  her  face.  Sydney's  tears 
flow  fast.  She  has  lost  Lewis,  lost  little  Teddy,  lost  Cyrilla, 
and  now  Lucy  is  gliding  out  on  that  dark  and  lonely  sea  that 
leads  to  the  Land  of  Life.  She  stills  her  heart-wrung  sobs  lest 
they  may  disturb  her,  and  softly  Lucy  glides  away  into  painless, 
tranquil  sleep. 

For  Lucy  Nolan,  whose  life  has  been  one  long  death,  is  dying 
at  last.  Nay,  death  is  ending,  life  is  dawning ;  pain,  and  tears, 
and  bodily  torture  are  drawing  to  their  end.  She  lies  here  white 
and  still,  dead,  you  might  almost  think  her,  but  for  the  faint 
breath  that  stirs  the  night-dress. 

The  windows  stand  wide  and  the  June  sunset  slants  through 
the  thick,  glossy  leaves  of  her  pet  ivy.  Over  the  other  the  cur- 
tains are  drawn,  but  Lucy  likes  to  lie  and  watch  that  glory  of 
ruby  and  golden  light  in  the  western  sky.  The  voices  of  chil- 
dren at  play  arise  from  the  quiet  street,  but  they  do  not  disturb 
the  sleeper.  With  her  forehead  against  the  head  of  the  bed, 
Sydney  sits  in  an  attitude  of  utter  dejection,  as  motionless  as 
the  slumberer  herself,  and  thinks  of  another  death-bed  by  which 
she  sat,  over  seven  years  ago. 

Many  months,  long,  dragging,  aimless  months,  have  passed 
since  that  evening  when  Cyrilla  Carew  took  her  New  Year  gift 
to  her  heart ;  a  winter,  a  spring,  a  summer,  an  autumn,  another 
winter  and  spring,  and  now  once  more  summer  is  here.  It  has 
been  a  time  full  of  changes,  but  it  has  brought  no  change  in 
Sydney's  life.  Fred  Carew  took  his  wife  and  son  home.  Lord 
Dunraith  had  remembered  him  handsomely — all  the  more 
handsomely,  perhaps,  that  he  had  married  Phillis  Dormer's 
niece,  and  so  in  part  atoned  for  his  father's  wrong.  There  was 
a  heavy-chimneyed  and  many-gabled  old  house  in  the  green 
heart  of  Somersetshire,  with  five  hundred  a  year  in  the  three 
per  cents,  and  to  this  ancestral  homestead  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carew 
had  gone. 

That  was  one  change.  The  second  great  event  was  the  end- 
ing of  the  war,  many  months  after.  Captain  Nolan,  as  reck- 
lessly brave  as  that  other  Captain  Nolan  who  led  the  great 
charge  at  Balaklava,  had  been  in  more  than  one  engagement  ; 
but  death,  the  best  boon  life  held,  passed  him  by— he  was  not 
t\f.a  wounded.  But  to  the  last  day  of  her  life  Sydney  will  re- 


416  "  TWO  HANDS    UPON  THE  BREAST." 

call  tne  sensation  of  deathly  terror  with  which  she  used  to  take 
up  the  papers  after  some  bloody  battle,  and  go  over  the  list  of 
wounded,  missing  and  killed.  In  those  sickening  lists  that 
name  was  never  to  be  read,  and  then  falling  on  her  knees,  her 
face  bowed  in  her  hands,  such  grateful  prayers  would  ascend  as 
might  indeed  pierce  the  heavens. 

All  this  time  no  word  passed  directly  between  them.  What 
was  there  to  say  ?  What  was  done  was  done — nothing  could 
undo  it.  What  could  Sydney  Nolan  have  to  say  to  the  husband 
who  had  directly  caused  the  death  of  Bertie  Vaughan,  indirectly 
the  death  of  her  father  ?  What  could  Lewis  Nolan  have  to  say 
to  the  wife  he  had  unintentionally  wronged  beyond  reparation  ? 
Nothing  was  to  be  said,  nothing  to  be  done,  it  seemed  to  them 
both,  but  go  on  to  the  end  apart. 

"  I  saw  her  shrink  from  me  in  horror  once,"  Lewis  said  in 
one  of  his  letters,  in  answer  to  an  urgent  appeal  from  his  sister  ; 
"  I  saw  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  it  would  kill  me  to  see  again. 
Could  my  hand  ever  touch  hers  without  her  recalling  that  her 
brother's  blood  stained  it  ?  No,  Lucy,  the  dead  cannot  arise. 
I  cannot  restore  the  life  I  took  away,  and  my  wife  and  I  can 
never  meet." 

And  Sydney  knew  it,  and  made  no  effort  to  span  the  chasm. 
But  how  empty,  how  hollow,  was  her  life  !  She  tried  to  pray, 
to  be  patient,  to  do  good  to  others,  to  keep  busy  and  useful,  to 
relieve  all  the  misery  she  met  that  mere  money  can  relieve  ;  to 
become,  if  not  a  happy  woman,  at  least  a  good  and  charitable 
one.  In  this  she  could  not  fail  to  succeed  ;  the  poor  at  her 
gates  arose  and  called  her  blessed ;  into  the  homes  of  the  sick 
and  the  wretched  she  came  as  an  angel  of  light,  but  to  her  own 
heart  peace  never  came.  Always  that  waiting,  hungrily  ex- 
pectant look,  always  that  restless  craving  for  the  life  that  had 
once  been  one  with  her  own. 

Then  came  the  end  of  the  war. 

Would  love  that  never  reasons,  that  is  reckless  and  selfish, 
too,  it  may  be,  fling  conviction  and  atonement  to  the  winds? 
Would  impulse  sway  his  heart  as  it  did  hers,  and  Lewis  return 
to  her  ?  Her  heart  beat  with  wild,  inconsistent  hope — if  he 
came  she  would  never  let  him  go  !  Inconsistent  indeed  ;  but 
when  are  women  consistent  ?  For  a  month  or  more,  a  fever 
of  fear,  of  hope,  of  restless  impatience  held  her — then  a  letter 
came. 

It  was  dated  San  Francisco,  and  was  calm,  almost  cold,  it 
seemed  to  poor  expectant  Sydney,  in  its  steady,  impassive,  uit 


"  TWO  HANDS   UPON  THE  BREAST"  417 

shaken  will.  Surely  she  had  been  insane  ever  to  dream  that  a 
strong  heart,  fixed  in  its  conviction  of  what  must  be,  could  ever 
be  swayed  hither  and  thither  as  hers.  Once  Lewis  Nolan, 
listening  to  unreasoning  passion  and  impulse,  had  committed  a 
wrong  he  could  never  repair ;  for  all  his  after-life  he  would  rein 
in  passion  and  impulse  with  a  steady  hand.  He  would  remain 
in  San  Francisco,  he  said,  for  good  and  all,  unless  something 
imperative  called  him  back.  Whatever  happened  at  home,  as 
usual,  they  were  to  let  him  know.  Mrs.  Nolan,  senior,  put  this 
letter  in  her  daughter  in-law's  hand,  without  a  word,  and  hastily 
left  the  room.  For  three  days  Sydney  did  not  come  to  the 
cottage,  then  one  evening,  just  as  they  were  growing  seriously 
uneasy,  she  paid  them  a  visit.  She  came  gliding  in,  so  unlike 
herself,  so  like  a  spirit,  that  Lucy's  heart  ached  for  her  as  it  had 
never  ached  before. 

And  so  hope  had  died  and  was  buried  decently  out  of  sight, 
and  life  went  on  without  it. 

That  winter  Lucy  failed,  sickened,  took  to  her  bed,  and  when 
April  came  began  to  die  daily.  Now  it  was  June,  and  death  at 
last  in  mercy  was  here. 

The  yellow  gleams  of  the  sunset  pale,  fade,  grow  crystal  gray, 
but  the  sleeper  sleeps,  and  the  watcher  watches,  both  without 
stir  or  sound.  Presently  the  chamber  door  opens  softly,  and 
there  comes  in  a  Sister  of  Charity,  in  long  rosary  and  white 
"  cornette."  The  church  to  which  Lucy  belongs,  infinitely  rich 
in  comfort  for  her  passing  children,  sends  one  of  her  vestal 
daughters  daily,  to  watch,  and  read,  and  pray  in  the  sick-room. 
Sydney  lifts  her  face,  such  a  pale,  spent  face  in  the  silvery  dusk, 
and  smiles  a  faint  greeting  to  Sister  Monica. 

"How  is  our  patient?"  the  nun  asks,  as  she  stoops  and 
touches  the  transparent  cheek  with  her  lips. 

"  Easy — free  from  pain — sleeping  like  a  child." 

The  answer  is  infinitely  weary,  the  blue  eyes  full  of  infinite 
mournfulness. 

"  Dear  child,"  Sister  Monica  says,  and  takes  that  colorless, 
tired  face  between  her  soft  palms,  "  she  is  freer  from  pain,  I 
fear,  than  you  are.  What  a  sorrowful  face  you  wear,  my 
child." 

She  is  scarcely  older  than  Sydney's  self,  this  young  nun,  not 
yet  five-aml-twenty  ;  but  the  motherly  "  my  child  "  comes  very 
sweetly  and  naturally  from  her  lips.  Sydney  looks  up,  and 
thinks,  as  she  has  often  thought  before,  what  a  pure,  serene, 
passionless  face  it  is,  with  eyes  of  untold  placidity,  and  mouth 
1 8* 


4i8  "TWO  HANDS    UPON  THE  BREAST." 

and  brow  of  indescribable  peace,  that  "  peace  wh.ch  the 
world  cannot  give."  She  lays  her  head  once  more  against  the 
pillow,  with  a  feeling  of  wistful  envy  for  that  serene  peace, 
which  has  passed  from  her  forever. 

"  Dear  Sister  Monica,"  she  says,  "  how  happy  you  are.  It 
rests  me  only  to  look  at  you.  Ah  !  why  cannot  we  be  all  nuns, 
and  have  done  with  the  wretched  cares  of  this  most  wretched 
world  ?" 

Sister  Monica  laughs. 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  uear,  when  you  present  yourself  as  a 
novice,  they  may  object  if  you  tell  them  that  is  your  motive 
in  coming.  We  do  not  cut  off  all  the  '  cares  of  this  most 
wretched  world,'  with  our  hair,  I  assure  you  ;  nor  do  we  put  on 
perfect  exemptions  from  trouble,  with  our  habits.  Our  good 
Father  sends  us  our  trials  and  our  joys,  in  the  cloister  as  in  the 
world,  and  we  must  kiss  the  rod  that  strikes,  as  well  as  the 
beneficent  hand  that  gives.  I  don't  know  what  your  special 
trouble  may  be,  Mrs.  Nolan,  but  I  think  I  can  guess,  and  what 
is  still  more,  I  think  you  are  doing  wrong." 

"Sister!" 

"  No  need  to  look  so  startled,  my  child  ;  I  am  not  going  to 
scold  ;  neither  do  1  know  what  your^  trouble  is,  as  I  have  said. 
Only  this  I  know,  that  it  has  parted  you  and  your  husband  ; 
and  husbands  and  wives  should  not  part." 

"You  don't  know,  you  don't  know  !  "  says  poor  Sydney. 

"No,  dear,  I  don't  know — I  don't  wish  to  know — it  is  some- 
thing very  hard  to  bear,  I  am  sure  ;  and  it  is  breaking  your  heart. 
Your  husband  has  committed  some  offence  against  you  which 
you  cannot  forgive.  Is  not  that  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no,  sister!  not  that.  I  have  forgiven  from  my 
heart  of  hearts." 

"  No,"  Sister  Monica  retorts,  energetically,  "  that  cannot  be. 
He  is  there — you  are  here.  If  you  forgave  you  would  be 
together.  There  can  be  no  forgiveness  like  that." 

"  You  do  not  understand,  and  I  cannot  tell  you,"  is  Sydney's 
helpless  reply. 

"  I  understand  this  much,  that  in  marriage,  it  is  for  better  for 
worse,  till  death  doth  ye  part.  God  has  joined  you,  and  you 
put  yourselves  asunder.  Nothing  can  make  that  right.  When 
duties  clash,  or  we  think  they  clash,  then  the  duty  that  lies 
nearest  is  the  duty  to  be  done.  Your  duty  as  a  wife  is  to  for- 
give your  husband's  wrong,  if  wrong  he  has  done,  and  go  to 
him  at  once  We  all  have  a  cross  to  bear,  a  great  deal  to  for- 


"TWO  HANDS   UPON  THE  BREAST"  419 

give  others.  If  your  cross  has  come  to  you  as  a  wife,  as  a  wife 
you  must  bear  it." 

"Oh!"  Sydney  passionately  cries  out,  "if  I  only  thought 
that  was  my  duty,  what  an  infinitely  happy  woman  I  would 
be!" 

"  I  have  known  your  husband,"  says  Sister  Monica.  "  I 
have  met  him  two  or  three  times,  and  have  heard  of  him  often  ; 
and  from  what  I  have  seen,  and  all  I  have  heard,  I  should  take 
him  to  be  an  exceptionally  good  man — as  men  go! "adds 
Sister  Monica,  a  sudden,  half-satirical  smile  dimpling  her  pretty 
mouth.  "  He  has  been  a  good  son  and  brother,  a  young  man 
of  fixed  principles  and  steadfast  will.  I  cannot  believe  but 
that  you  exaggerate  his  fault,  whatever  that  may  be.  But  sup- 
pose you  do  not — has  he  sinned,  do  you  think,  beyond  divine 
forgiveness  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  Sydney  cries  again,  Heaven  forbid  !  If  he 
has  done  wrong,  he  has  bitterly  suffered,  and  repented,  and 
atoned." 

"  Then,  if  he  is  forgiven  of  Heaven,  what  are  you,  that  you 
should  withhold  pardon  and  reconciliation  on  earth  ?  '  Though  a 
man's  crime  be  murder,  if  the  Lord  hath  compassion  on  him, 
shalt  not  thou  ?  '  " 

Sydney  looks  up  with  a  faint  cry ;  but  in  the  sister's  gentle 
compassionate  eyes,  there  is  only  the  holy  light  of  tender  pity. 
She  stoops  in  her  impulsive  way  and  kisses  the  nun's  hand. 

"  Pray  for  me,  sister,"  she  says.  "  Oh  !  pray  that  I  may 
know  the  truth." 

"Lucy!"  exclaims  Sister  Monica;  "dear  child,  are  you 
awake  ?  " 

"  Awake  and  listening,"  Lucy  answers,  with  a  smile,  "  thinking 
how  good  it  is  of  you  to  anticipate  the  sermon  I  meant  to 
preach.  Sydney,  sister,  come  here  and  let  me  look  at  you. 
Dear,  what  a  pale,  sad  face,  so  different  from  the  bright  fair  face 
I  first  saw  in  this  room.  Sister  Monica  is  right;  your  martyrdom 
has  lasted  long  enough  ;  you  must  go  to  Lewis." 

Sydney  kneels  by  the  bedside  and  buries  her  face. 

"  You  must  go  to  Lewis,"  pursues  Lucy,  "  because  I  do  not 
think  he  will  come.  He  is  terribly  steadfast  in  his  notions  of 
duty,  and  he  thinks  it  is  his  duty  to  keep  away  ;  but  once  you 
are  with  him  all  will  be  well.  It  seems  to  me  I  see  the  things 
of  time  more  clearly  by  the  light  of  eternity,  and  I  know,  I 
KNOW  it  is  your  duty  to  return  to  your  husband." 

She  still  kneels,  with  clasped  hands,  parted,  breathless  lips, 


|20  "TWO  HANDS    UPON  THE  BREAST." 

pale  as  ashes,  listening  to  the  fiat  from  dying  lips,  that  is  new 
life  to  her. 

"  If  your  father  were  alive,  and  knew  all  as  we  know  it,  do 
you  think,  dearly  as  he  loved  his  adopted  son,  he  would  con- 
sign you  to  a  life  of  misery  because  an  accident  had  been  done  ? 
For,  after  all,  Sydney,  it  was  as  much  an  accident  as  anything 
else.  Would  he  have  forbidden  your  return  ?  " 

"  No,  no — oh,  no  !  My  happiness  was  nearer  to  my  father's 
heart  than  anything  else  in  this  world." 

"  Then  do  as  he  would  have  permitted  you.  Forget  the  past, 
and  begin  life  anew.  Tell  Lewis  it  was  Lucy's  dying  wish. 
Tell  him  I  send  him  my  dearest  love,  and  that  I  ask  him  to 
come  back  and  make  mother  happy  until  I  see  her  again.  Syd- 
ney, you  promise  this  ?  " 

"  I  promise." 

Once  before,  kneeling  by  a  bedside,  she  made  a  promise  to 
the  dying — that,  of  stern  justice  and  retribution — this,  of  par- 
don and  peace. 

A  look  of  great  content  falls  upon  the  dying  face.  She  turns,, 
and  holds  out  a  feeble  hand  to  sister  Monica. 

"  Read  to  me,"  she  says,  softly  smiling.  "  My  last  trouble  is 
at  an  end." 

The  sister  obeys,  and  her  sweetly  solemn  voice  alone  breaks 
the  stillness  ;  and  presently,  her  hand  still  clasped  in  the  sister's, 
she  drops  asleep  once  more,  quietly  as  a  child. 

The  evening  wears  on  ;  a  priest  conies  and  goes  ;  Mrs.  No- 
lan steals  in  to  take  one  last  look  at  Lucy  before  retiring. 
Nine,  ten,  eleven,  strike  from  the  city  clocks  ;  the  street  is  per- 
fectly quiet.  Faint  and  far  off  come  the  night  noises  of  New 
York,  the  "  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street,"  the  dulled  roll 
of  many  wheels.  Sister  Monica,  wearied  with  a  long,  hot  day's 
teaching,  folds  her  hands  inside  her  sleeves  presently,  lays  her 
head  against  the  side  of  her  chair,  and  sleeps.  Only  Sydney 
watches,  her  eyes  never  leaving  Lucy,  except  to  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  placid  face  of  the  other  sleeper.  Then,  all  at  once 
• — it  is  close  upon  twelve — Lucy  Nolan's  eyes  fly  open,  her  lips 
part  in.  a  radiant  smile,  they  turn  for  a  second  upon  Sydney, 
then  close,  and  in  this  world  open  no  more.  With  the  striking 
of  that  most  solemn  hour,  which  links  the  night  and  the  day; 
the  stainless  soul  has  gone. 


DOLLY.  4X1 

CHAPTER    XXII. 

DOLLY. 

SULTRY  summer  night.  A  great  city  bathed  in  ambei 
haze,  its  towers,  its  steeples,  its  tall  chimneys,  pierc- 
ing the  misty,  yellow  air,  sits  throned  like  a  queen, 
with  the  sea  at  its  feet.  A  windless,  breathless,  mid- 
summer night,  with  all  life  lying  languorous  under  its  sultry  spell. 
In  a  quiet  room,  in  a  quiet  street,  a  man  lies,  looking  out  at 
the  shining  stars  that  pierce  the  blue  air  like  eyes.  He  lies  on 
a  low  lounge  wheeled  beneath  the  open  window,  his  hands  clasped 
under  his  head,  quite  still,  as  he  has  lain  for  nearly  an  hour. 
He  is  in  his  shirt  sieves,  trying  to  catch  a  breath  of  salt  air  from 
the  distant  ocean.  A  man  whose  long  length,  as  he  lies  here, 
is  beyond  that  of  most  men  ;  a  man  upon  the  colorlessness  of 
whose  clear,  calm  face  trouble  has  scored  its  inevitable  lines  ; 
a  man  from  the  gray  darkness  of  whose  eyes  profound  thought- 
fulness  looks  out. 

Yet  it  is  not  a  stern  face,  nor  a  sombre  face,  not  the  face  of 
a  man  whose  life  trouble  has  spoiled.  It  is  rather  that  of  one 
who  has  greatly  suffered,  who  may  have  greatly  sinned,  but  who 
also  has  learned  to  endure.  Sorrow  either  takes  all  or  gives 
more  than  it  takes.  It  has  refined  and  purified  him,  given  a 
quick,  almost  womanly  sympathy  with  all  who  suffer ;  given 
him  a  spur  to  live  down  private  grief  in  public  work  ;  given  a 
new  and  nobler  color  to  his  whole  life. 

He  lies  here,  looks  out  at  the  yellow  winking  stars,  and 
dreams.  In  his  full  and  rapidly  rising  life,  there  is  little  time  for 
idle  dreams  or  vain  regrets.  This  hour  "  between  the  lights  " 
is  the  hour  sacred  to  memory,  when  the  heat  and  labor  of  the 
day  aro  at  an  end,  and  the  occupation  or  relaxation  of  the  night 
have  not  begun.  The  street  in  which  his  office  is,  is  retired 
and  removed  from  the  turmoil  of  the  city.  Two  or  three 
lamps  blink  through  the  yellow  sleepy  air  ;  the  voices  of  little 
children  arise  in  shout  and  laughter  now  and  then.  In  the 
trees  some  belated  birds  are  twittering,  mosquitoes  chant  their 
deadly  song,  the  sharp  chirp  of  the  grasshopper  and  cricket  is 


4-22  DOLLY. 

audible,  and  fire-flies  flash  in  myriads  over  the  grass-plots. 
Down  at  the  corner  some  Italian  harpers,  a  little  brown  boy 
and  a  girl,  are  playing  and  singing  the  Marseillaise  : 

"Ye  sons  of  Fiance,  awake  to  glory!  " 

Across  the  way,  a  girl  in  a  white  dress  is  sitting  in  the  hot 
darkness  at  a  jingly  piano,  and  she  is  also  singing  : 

<s'Micl  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 
A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there." 

It  all  blends  harmoniously  together  with  the  dull  roar  of  the 
distant  city  heart  for  an  accompaniment,  and  soothes  him  as  he 
listens.  Even  the  pain  the  girl's  song  gives  him  is  not  without 
its  alloy  of  sweetness  and  rest.  It  is  a  tender,  little  voice,  and 
sings  the  dear  old  words  with  feeling.  She  has  long  light  hair, 
too,  and  blue  eyes — he  has  seen  her  many  evenings  lying 
wearily  here,  and  it  gives  him  a  sort  of  comfort  to  watch  the 
light  glittering  on  those  fair  tresses,  so  like  a  coil  of  pale  gold, 
he  wears  over  his  heart. 

The  harpists  move  away  ;  the  girl  closes  the  piano,  lights  her 
lamp,  and  draws  the  curtain.  His  hour  cf  idleness  has  ended  , 
he  rises,  puts  on  his  coat  and  hat,  locks  his  door,  and  saunters 
slowly  away  toward  his  hotel  and  his  supper.  The  streets  are 
filled,  are  brilliant  with  light  and  color,  animation  and  restless 
life.  Men  from  every  nation  under  Heaven  jostle  each  other 
on  the  pave,  all  the  tongues  that  clanged  at  Babel  seem  to  make 
discord  here.  It  is  a  panorama  he  is  well  used  to,  but  one  that 
never  loses  its  interest  for  him,  a  student  of  his  kind. 

All  at  once  the  steady  flow  of  this  human  tide  is  broken  ; 
there  is  a  sudden  rush,  and  commotion,  and  uproar,  and  from  a 
dozen  hoarse  voices  there  arises  the  cry  : 

"Fire!" 

At  all  times,  by  night  or  by  day,  it  is  a  thrilling  word.  Peo- 
ple turn  and  rush  pell-mell  in  the  wake  of  the  fire  engines,  and 
he  follows  the  crowd.  The  fire  is  some  half  dozen  blocks  off, 
and  the  sultry  air  is  stifling  with  black  rolling  smoke.  There  is 
more  smoke  than  flame,  thick,  choking  volumes  from  along  the 
street,  that  half  smother  the  eager  crowd.  Now  and  then  an 
orange  tongue  of  flame:,  like  a  fiery  serpent-head,  darts  forth, 
licks  the  blackened  bricks,  and  disappears.  It  is  a  large,  shell- 
like  house,  and  though  there  is  little  to  be  seen,  the  fire  has  at 


DOLL  y.  423 

ready  gutted  it.  It  originated  in  the  cellar,  some  one  says,  and 
has  made  such  headway  unnoticed  that  those  in  the  upper  rooms 
are  entirely  cut  off.  It  is  a  boarding-house,  and  is  packed  with 
people.  Faces,  wild  with  terror,  appear  at  every  window,  wo- 
men's shrieks  rend  the  air,  the  engines  play  in  steady  streams, 
the  firemen  dart  up  and  down  their  ladders,  and  men,  women, 
and  children  are  drawn  forth  from  the  burning  building.  There 
is  no  fire-escape,  it  seems  ;  the  only  means  of  exit  is  by  the  fire- 
men's ladders. 

The  man  who  has  interestedly  followed  the  crowd  helps  with 
might  and  main  ;  not  the  firemen  themselves  work  harder,  or  help 
more  than  he.  It  is  growing  desperate  work — the  imprisoned 
flames  all  at  once  break  their  boundaries  and  burst  forth  in  sheets 
and  volumes  of  fire.  In  five  minutes  the  whole  blazing  shell  will 
fall  in.  The  firemen  draw  back.  Have  all  been  saved  ?  Only 
a  few  minutes  have  passed  since  they  came.  No !  As  the 
question  is  asked,  at  a  third  story  window  a  woman's  face  gleams 
through  the  lurid  "gilt-edged  hell,"  and  a  woman's  frenzied 
scream  thrills  every  heart  with  horror. 

"  The  ladders  !  the  ladders  ! "  is  the  hoarse  roar.  "  Quick, 
for  Heaven's  sake  !" 

But  the  woman  neither  hears,  nor  heeds,  nor  stops.  As  they 
clutch  the  ladders  for  the  desperate  venture,  with  a  second  cry 
of  fear  and  despair,  the  pursuing  flames  close  behind  her,  she 
throws  up  the  sash  and  leaps  headlong  among  the  spectators 
There  is  an  indescribable  groan  from  the  multitude,  a  dull,  heavy, 
sickening  thud,  then  for  a  second  blank  stillness. 

The  flames  roar  and  crackle  triumphantly,  the  firemen  rush 
to  save  the  adjoining  buildings,  as  with  a  tremendous  crash  the 
roof  falls  in  and  the  air  is  afire  with  flying  sparks  and  cinders. 

The  woman  who  leaped  lies  .n  a  motionless  heap  on  the 
pavement.  They  lift  her  up,  and  the  lurid  blaze  falls  full  on  her 
death-white  countenance.  She  is  a  young  woman,  and  a  pretty 
woman,  for  the  face  is  uninjured,  and  masses  of  dark  hair  fall 
and  trail  over  the  arms  of  the  men  who  raise  her.  One  of  them 
speaks  : 

"  Great  Heaven  !  Dolly  !  " 

"  You  know  her,  stranger  ?  "  half  a  dozen  voices  ask. 

It  is  the  man  who  has  worked  with  the  firemen.  He  is  bend- 
ing over  the  senseless  woman,  pity  and  horror  in  his  eyes. 

''She  is  an  actress.  Yes,  1  know  her.  For  Heaven's  sake, 
men,  let  us  take  her  where  she  cai  be  cared  for  at  once  !  " 

"No   use,"    somebody  made   answer;  ''all  the   doctors  in 


424  DOLLY. 

'Frisco  won't  do  her  any  good.     She  passed  in  heFchecks  when 
she  took  that  jump." 

It  seems  so.  She  lies  awfully  limber  and  corpse-like  in  their 
arms.  An  ambulance  comes  and  she  is  taken  away,  and  the 
man  who  has  recognized  her,  follows,  and  waits  in  painful  ex- 
pectation for  the  verdict  of  the  surgeons.  It  comes. 

''  Not  dead.  Compound  fracture  of  right  leg.  Shoulder  dis- 
lOcated.  Bruises  on  head  and  side.  May  die.  Impossible  to 
be  positive  yet." 

"  She  is  a  person  I  once  knew.  May  I  beg  you  to  take  even 
more  than  ordinary  care  ?  Any  extra  attention •" 

"  AH  right,  sir,"  the  gentlemanly  physician  says.  He  knows 
the  man  who  speaks  for  a  rising  young  lawyer,  who  has  made 
considerable  stir  in  the  city  by  his  conduct  of  a  recent  popular 
divorce  suit. 

The  young  woman  does  not  die,  but  life  has  a  sharp  tussle 
for  the  victory.  She  has  youth  and  a  vigorous  constitution  on 
her  side,  and  three  weeks  after  that  sweltering  night  all  danger 
is  over,  and  she  lies,  unable  to  move,  suffering  intensely,  but 
still  wrested  from  the  grasp  of  grim  King  Death.  As  convales- 
cence fairly  sets  in,  the  hours  begin  to  drag,  and  she  amuses  her- 
self in  a  dreary  way  by  watching  all  that  goes  on  in  the  ward 
A  hospital  is  not  half  a  bad  place,  this  patient  thinks,  as  she 
swallows  with  gusto  fruity  old  wines,  and  devours  her  chick- 
ens, and  peaches,  and  ice-cream,  and  grapes.  But  gradually  it 
dawns  upon  her  that  these  are  luxuries  the  other  patients  are 
not  fed  on.  Oranges,  pears,  pineapples,  fruits  of  all  kinds  come 
for  her,  fresh  and  crisp,  every  morning  in  a  basket — so  do  the 
chickens  and  the  wines.  Now,  colored  boys  and  baskets  don't 
come  of  themselves — some  one  must  send  them.  Who  is  that 
some  one  ?  She  has  not  a  friend  in  San  Francisco  who  cares 
a  straw  whether  she  lives  or  dies — who,  then,  takes  all  this  trouble 
and  expense  ?  Her  nurse  is  more  attentive  to  her  than  to  any 
other  patient  in  the  ward  ;  has  her  palm  been  anointed  with  gold, 
too  ?  She  debates  this  question  two  whole  days,  then  she  calls 
the  nurse,  a  fat  old  Englishwoman,  and  demands  an  explanation. 

"Say,"  she  begins,  "  who  is  it  sends  me  all  these  things? 
Nobody  else  gets  'em-wine,  fowl,  fruit,  all  that.  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  very  nice  gentleman  indeed,  my  dear,"  responds  the 
nurse  ;  "  a  friend  of  yours  that  came  with  you  here,  and  has 
behaved  most  'andsome  about  you  in  hevery  way.  Most  'and- 
some,"  repeats  the  nurse,  with  emphasis. 

"'  A  friend  of  mine  !  "    says  the  patient,  bewildered,  opening 


DOLL  Y.  425 

wide  two  black  eyes.     "  Nonsense  !  I  haven't  a  friend  in  Cali- 
fornia.    I  have  only  just  come." 

"  Which  I  think  you  must  be  mistook,  my  dear.  I  only 
'ope,  if  hever  I  conies  to  grief,  I  may  find  such  a  friend  as  him." 

A  sudden,  eager  flush  reddens  the  young  woman's  pale  face. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  she  demands. 

"  His  name  it  is  Mr.  Nolan,  and  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman 
he  is  if  I  ever  see  one.  A  young  lawyer,  my  dear — which,  hold 
or  young,  they  ain't  mostly  tender-'earted,  from  all  I  have  'card, 
but  if  you  was  his  own  sister  or  sweetheart  he  couldn't  be  more 
concerned  than  he  is.  He  spoke  to  the  doctor,  he  spoke  to  me 
in  the  most  'andsome  way ;  he  sends  you  these  things  ;  there 
ain't  a  day  he  don't  come,  or  send,  to  inquire." 

"  Nolan  !  "  repeated  the  patient,  and  the  hopeful,  eager  flush 
faded  out,  and  a  spasm  of  painful  surprise  took  its  place.  "  Lewis 
Nolan  ?  " 

"  Which  his  Christian  name  I  do  not  know,  but  Nolan  it  is. 
A  tall,  fine-looking  young  gentleman  as  you  ever  might  wish  to 
see,  and  spoke  most  high  of  in  all  the  papers." 

"  Dark  ?"  the  silk  girl  cries,  eagerly,  "  with  large,  piercing 
looking  eyes,  and  a  stern  sort  efface.  " 

"  Dark  it  is,"  responds  the  nurse ;  and  his  heyes,  now  that 
you  put  it  to  me,  I  do  not  know  the  color  of,  but  quite  dark  and 
'andsome.  About  the  stern  look  I  don't  know — he  smiles  most 
sweet  at  times,  but  he  certinly  do  look  like  a  gentleman  as 
has  seen  trouble." 

"  Lewis  Nolan  here  !"  the  invalid  mutters  ;  that  is  strange 
Does  his  wife  come  with  him,  nurse  ?  A  pretty,  fair-haired 
young  lady,  with  a  soft  voice  and  blue  eyes  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear ;  no  lady  has  ever  come  with  him  here,  from 
first  to  last." 

There  is  a  pause  ;  she  lies  with  her  brows  knit,  her  lips 
twitching  in  nervous  pain. 

"  You  say  he  comes  to  see  me,  nurse  ?  "  she  says,  at  last. 
"  How  is  it  I  have  never  got  a  glimpse  of  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  first  of  all  you  was  out  of  your  poor  dear 'ead 
of  course,  and  didn't  know  nothin'  or  nobody.  Then  when  you 
got  right  in  your  'ead,  he  would  only  come  and  look  at  you 
when  you  was  asleep,  and  stop  at  the  door  if  you  was  awake. 
You  would  not  care  to  see  him,  he  said,  and  he  would  not  dis- 
turb you.  Will  you  'ave  some  wine  or  broth  now,  my  deary  ?  " 

"No,  not  now,"  Dolly  De  Courcy  answers,  and  turns  away 
her  face. 


420  DOLLY. 

So  !  Lewis  Nolan  is  here,  and  it  is  he  who  cares  for  her  when 
all  the  world  has  forsaken  her.  Lewis  Nolan  cares  for  her  and 
spends  his  money  upon  her  ;  and  she,  two  years  ago,  she  be- 
trayed him  to  his  wife.  That  was  her  hour — this  is  his,  and  it 
seems  he  likes  a  noble  revenge.  Dolly,  little  benighted 
heathen  that  she  is,  has  never  read  or  heard,  of  heaping  coals 
of  fire  on  an  enemy's  head,  but  she  feels  it  keenly  now.  There 
dawns  upon  her  untaught  soul  a  glimpse  of  something  nobler 
than  life  has  ever  shown  her  yet.  She  broods  over  it  all  day, 
and  in  the  restless  vigil  of  bodily  torture  in  the  night,  and  comes 
to  a  resolution.  Next  morning,  when  the  nurse  visits  her  bed- 
side, Dolly  speaks  abruptly  : 

"  When  was  Mr.  Nolan  here  last  ?  " 

"  Day  before  yesterday,  deary.  He  don't  come  so  often 
now  that  you  are  getting  nicely,  but  he  never  forgets  to  send 
the  things." 

"  The  next  time  he  comes,  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him — that 
1  must  see  him,"  says  Dolly. 

The  nurse  promises,  and  goes,  and  Dolly  lies  and  thinks  and 
thinks.  Softened  and  subdued  thoughts  they  must  be  ;  for  by 
and  by  tears  well  up  in  the  hard  black  eyes  and  roll  silently 
over  the  wasted  cheeks.  Touched  by  kindness,  weakened  by 
pain,  Dolly  will  rise  from  that  bed  a  better  little  woman  than 
she  lay  down. 

He  does  not  come  that  day;  but  the  next,  Saturday,  brings 
him.  He  comes  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  Dolly's  message  is 
delivered.  For  a  moment  he  hesitates  in  irresolute  thought  : 
she  can  have  nothing  to  say  that  it  will  not  be  intensely  painful 
for  him  to  hear.  He  bears  her  no  ill-will,  has  never  done  so, 
for  the  part  of  informant  she  played.  Since  the  truth  was  as  it 
was,  it  is  much  better  it  should  be  known  ;  but  the  sight  of  her 
recalls  memories  that  are  the  slow  torture  of  his  life.  But  he 
will  not  refuse.  Self-sacrifice  grows  easy  by  practice.  He 
goes  to  her  bedside  and  looks  down  kindly  upon  her. 

"  You  are  better,  Dolly,"  he  says.      "  I  am  glad  of  that." 

She  seizes  the  hand  he  holds  out — she  has  ever  been  a  crea- 
ture of  impulse — and  covers  it  with  passionately  grateful  kisses. 

"Lewis  Nolan,"  she  says,  "you  are  a  good  man.  I  have 
not  deserved  this  from  you." 

"  Hush,  Dolly,"  he  answers,  in  a  troubled  voice.  "  I  have 
done  nothing.  When  will  you  be  up,  and  about  ?  " 

"I  don't  know:  I  don't  care  !  The  best  thing  I  can  do  is 
to  die.  I  am  of  no  use  in  the  world;  nobody  wants  me; 


DOLLY.  427 

nobody  cares  for  me.  I  am  not  going  to  talk  of  myself.  I  want 
to  hear  something  about  you.  When  did  you  come  to  San 
Francisco?" 

'  Over  a  year  ago." 

'  You  were  in  the  army  until  the  end  of  the  war  ?  " 

•  Yes." 

;  Then  you  came  straight  out  here  ?  " 

;  I  did." 

'  You  joined  the  army  a  week  after  I  went  and  told  your 
wife— that  ?  " 

His  face  whitens,  but  his  grave  eyes  look  at  her  kindly;  his 
voice  keeps  its  gentle  tone. 

'  I  did." 

'  Was  that  the  cause  ?  " 

'  That  was  the  cause." 

'What  I  said  parted  your  wife  and  you?" 

'  Yes,  Dolly." 

'  And  keeps  you  parted  still  ?  " 

He  bends  his  head,  a  flush  of  intensest  pain  darkening  his 
face. 

"  Lewis,  your  wife  is  lovely  and  sweet,  and  like  a  queen. 
You  love  her,  don't  you  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  And  she  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  says.  "  Dolly,  you  must  cease.  I  can't  bear 
this." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  cries,  almost  triumphantly.  "  You 
stay  apart  because  I  told  her  you  killed  Bertie  Vaughan,  and 
you  are  both  breaking  your  hearts  because  you  are  apart.  Is 
that  it?" 

She  sees  that  she  is  torturing  him,  but  she  still  grasps  his 
hand,  and  looks  with  eager  eyes  into  his. 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  says  ;  exultation  in  her  tone,  "  when  I 
hear''  you  were  here.  Now,  then,  Lewis  Nolan,  you  have  done 
a  go  »d  turn  for  me,  and  I  am  going  to  do  a  good  turn  for  you. 
You  may  go  back  to  your  wife  as  soon  as  you  please,  if  that  is 
all  that  holds  you  asunder;  for  Bertie  Vaughan  is  no  more  de«u! 
than  you  are." 


42 &  "hE    WHO  EXDURES   CONQUERS* 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"HE    WHO    ENDURES    CONQUERS." 

|E  stands  speechless,  looking  down  at  her,  every  trace 

of  color  slowly  leaving  his  face. 

Dolly  laughs  aloud  in  her  triumph. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  have  found  it  out,  but  I  see 
you  haven't.  I  am  glad  that  1  am  the  first  to  tell  you !  it 
seems  like  making  up  for  the  past  and  thanking  you  for  the 
present.  If  you  had  not  been  good  to  me  I  would  never  have 
told  you.  Nobody  ever  treated  me  well — that  was  how  I 
thought — why  should  I  treat  anybody  well  ?  But  now  it  is 
different.  I  did  you  harm,  all  the  harm  I  could ;  and  you  do 
me  good  when  your  turn  comes.  That  is  being  a  Christian  ; 
but  I  don't  think  there  are  many  out-and-out  Christians.  No ; 
you  needn't  stand  and  look  at  me  as  white  as  a  sheet,  there's 
nothing  to  be  scared  about.  You  thought  you  killed  Bertie 
Vaughan  when  you  threw  him  over  the  bank,  but  you  didn't 
I've  often  wished  since  you  had ;  but  people  that  are  born  to 
make  other  people  miserable  don't  go  oft  the  hooks  so  easy. 
That's  what  I  sent  for  you  to  tell  you.  Now  sit  down  here  ;  it 
ain't  a  long  story,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

She  points  to  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  still  holding  his  hand 
fast  in  hers,  and  with  her  round  black  eyes  shining  upon  him, 
begins  in  a  rapid  voice  her  story. 

"  You  remember  that  night  ?  Yes,  of  course  you  do.  Well, 
do  you  know  I  felt  sure  you  would  go  to  WychclifTe,  and  I  didn't 
care,  because  I  meant  to  make  a  fuss  myself,  and  never  let  that 
wedding  come  off.  Oh  !  how  fond  I  was  of  him  !  He  was 
awfully  good-looking,  you  know,  and  his  aristocratic  airs,  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  fairly  turned  my  head.  I'd  never  seen  anybody 
like  him,  and  never  have  since,  for  that  matter.  I  couldn't  have 
let  him  marry  Miss  Owenson,  no  I  couldn't.  1  would  rather 
have  killed  him  than  let  him.  So  I  watched  and  waited,  and 
went  down  to  Wychcliffe  as  you  did,  the  night  before.  I  knew 
be  was  staying  at  the  hotel,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  see  him 
before  he  slept,  and  make  him  hear  to  reason  ;  but  when  I  spied 
you  on  the  train  i  changed  my  plans.  I  would  watch  you  in- 
steaJ.  I  knew  what  a  horrid  temper  you  had — beg  your  par. 


"HE    WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERS"  429 

don,  Lewis — and  how  jealous  you  were,  and  I  didn't  want  you 
to  hurt  him.  I've  often  wondered  since  how  a  man  like  you, 
clever,  and  educated,  and  serious,  and  all  that,  came  to  care 
about  a  girl  like  me.  I  wasn't  worth  it,  but  I  was  good  enough 
for  Bertie  Vaughan,  for  he  is  a  scoundrel,  with  all  his  airs  and 
graces,  if  there  ever  was  one. 

"  You  didn't  know  me  ;  I  had  on  a  thick  brown  veil,  and  I 
kept  away  in  a  corner.  But  I  never  lost  sight  of  you.  1  fol- 
lowed you  to  the  hotel  ;  I  waited  outside  until  you  left  it,  and 
then  I  went  after  you  along  the  cliff-path.  I  saw  you  stop  be- 
hind the  big  boulder,  and  then  I  knew  you  meant  to  wait  there 
for  Bertie.  Very  well,  I  stopped  and  waited,  too.  By-and-by 
he  came  whistling  along  quite  cheerful  and  bridegroom-like,  and 
you  stalked  out  like  a  ghost  and  said  :  '  Stay  ! '  I  was  hiding 
behind  some  spruces  a  little  way  off,  and  could  see  and  hear 
quite  comfortable.  I  was  curious  to  know  what  you  would  do 
or  say — I  had  no  idea  you  would  heave  him  over — and  I  kept 
quiet  and  waited.  Lor"  bless  you  !  I  don't  think  two  minutes 
passed  before  you  clinched,  and  the  next  thing  you  gave  him  a 
plunge  from  you  and  over  he  went. 

"  Well !  I  was  so  stunned,  turned  so  dead  sick,  that  for  a 
while  I  could  neither  move  nor  open  my  mouth.  You  looked 
stunned,  too — such  a  face  as  you  had  in  the  moonlight !  Then 
you  turned  and  walked  away.  That  roused  me  up,  and  I  started 
out  and  made  for  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  You  might  have  seen 
me  easy  if  you  had  looked  back,  but  you  kept  straight  on  as  if 
you  didn't  care.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  felt  as  I  looked  over 
that  horrid  place  expecting  to  see  him  all  mashed  to  a  jelly 
down  on  the  rocks. 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  the  Old  Boy's  good  to  his  own.  There  was 
Bertie,  half  way  down,  clinging  for  dear  life  to  a  cedar  bush,  and 
staring  up,  froze  stiff  with  terror,  and  not  able  to  say  a  word. 

"  VVell,  I  gave  a  gasp  at  that,  and  nearly  went  over  myself, 
so  glad  was  i  at  the  sight. 

"  'Bertie,'  I  said,  'don't  be  afraid.  It's  me,  it's  Dolly,  and 
I'll  save  you  if  1  break  my  own  neck  doing  it.' 

"  'Dolly  !'  he  cried  out,  in,  oh!  such  a  voice  of  agony  and 
fear.  '  Dolly,  save  me,  and  I'll  never  leave  you  again  as  long 
as  I  live.' 

"  You  see  he  was  a  coward,  as  all  traitors  are,  and  was  pretty 
well  scared  to  death.  All  my  wits  came  back  at  once. 

"  '  Wait,'  I  said  ;  '  let  me  think.  I  can't  go  down  to  you,  and 
you  can't  reach  the  bottom  without  killing  yourself.  I  have  it. 


43°  "HE    WHO  ENDURES   CONQUERS." 

I'll  make  a  rope.  I'll  fasten  it  up  here  to  this  rock,  and  I'll 
throw  the  other  end  to  you.  Wait,  Bertie — wait.' 

"  '  Hurry,  then,'  he  says,  in  that  same  dreadful  voice,  '  for  this 
bush  is  breaking,  and  won't  hold  my  weight  five  minutes  more. 
Dolly,  save  me,  and  I  swear  I'll  marry  you  before  morning.' 

"I  didn't  need  that  to  make  me  work,  but  I  worked  as  I 
never  did  before.  I  had  a  penknife  in  my  pocket,  and  a  broche 
shawl  around  me.  These  broche  things  are  strong,  you  know ; 
no,  perhaps  you  don't,  but  they  are  ;  and  I  set  to  work  and  cut 
it  into  seven  strips.  I  knotted  them  together,  and  stood  on 
every  knot,  and  pulled  with  all  my  might.  I  threw  it  down  and 
it  was  just  long  enough.  Then  I  twisted  one  end  round  the 
rock,  and  braced  myself,  and  held  on  with  both  hands.  If  the 
knots  had  slipped,  Lord  a'  mercy  on  him — his  brains  would 
have  been  knocked  out — but  they  didn't.  He  caught  it,  and  it 
held,  and  when  he  got  to  the  top,  he  just  fell  down,  all  in  aheap, 
and,  if  you'll  believe  it,  fainted  away  like  a  frightened  girl. 

"  Well,  1  didn't  mind  that ;  I  rubbed  him  with  snow,  and 
loosened  his  collar,  and  slapped  his  hands,  and  by-and-by  he 
came  to.  But  he  was  white  as  a  corpse,  and  so  weak  at  first 
with  scare  he  could  hardly  stand.  He  just  let  me  do  as  I 
pleased  with  him  ;  he  had  no  more  pluck  left  than  a  chicken. 
We  went  to  the  station,  but  the  train  was  gone,  and  you  with  it, 
I  suppose,  in  a  fine  state,  thinking  you  had  killed  him.  I  can't 
say  I  was  angry  with  you,  for  you  had  made  matters  smooth  and 
easy  for  me  ;  but  Bertie  was  furious.  His  face  and  hands  were 
all  scratched  and  bleeding,  and  after  awhile,  as  we  walked  along, 
he  got  silent  and  sulky.  He  must  go  with  me,  he  knew  ;  but  you 
and  the  Owenson  family,  and  everybody  else,  must  believe  he 
was  killed ;  that  was  better  than  they  should  know  he  had  run 
away  with  me — no,  that  I  had  run  away  with  him.  We  could 
walk  to  the  next  station  and  take  a  later  train  there  for  New 
York.  He  would  change  his  name,  and  he  would  have  the 
satisfaction  of  making  the  ruffian  who  threw  him  over,  think 
himself  a  murderer.  I  encouraged  him  in  all  this.  Well,  the 
end  of  it  is,  we  got  to  New  York  unnoticed  and  were  married 
the  very  next  day." 

Dolly  pauses.  Retrospective  memories  seem  for  a  moment 
too  many  for  her,  but  she  rallies  and  goes  on. 

"We  kept  quiet  for  a  while.  He  called  himself  Hamilton, 
and  did  not  stay  with  mother  and  me.  How  we  both  enjoyed 
it  when  the  detective  came  to  pump  me  about  the  murder.  For 
my  part,  I  was  glad  you  were  out  of  the  way,  Lewis,  and  that 


"HE    WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERS."  43! 

no  one  suspected  you.  If  you  had  been  arrested,  you  may  be 
sure  I  would  have  come  forward  and  told  the  truth.  I  think 
Bertie  felt  the  death  of  Captain  Owenson  and  the  loss  of  his 
fortune,  but  it  was  too  late  now ;  and  I  did  my  best  to  make  up 
to  him,  but  he  was  sullen  and  dissatisfied  from  the  very  first.  I 
worked  for  both.  I  got  an  engagement  with  a  company  going 
to  Texas,  and  Bertie,  of  course,  went  along.  All  that  winter 
and  the  following  summer  we  spent  in  Galveston  ;  then  we  re- 
turned to  New  York,  and  made  our  next  winter  trip  to  Cuba. 
The  succeeding  summer  we  passed  in  Canada,  the  last  we 
ever  passed  anywhere  together.  All  this  time  Bertie  was  get- 
ting more  and  more  surly,  and  cross,  and  dissatisfied — it  wasn't 
what  he  was  used  to — and  he  kept  nag,  nag,  nagging  at  me  un- 
til I  was  nearly  wild.  Actresses  like  me  don't  make  fortunes. 
What  I  did  make  he  spent  faster  than  it  was  earned.  He  was 
sick  of  our  strolling  life,  he  wished  a  dozen  times  a  day  I  had 
never  saved  his  life,  any  death  was  better  than  this  sort  of  exis- 
tence ;  he  hated  being  perpetually  pinched,  and  forever  with 
low  company  and  a  vulgar,  uneducated  wife — that  is  what  he 
called  me.  After  that,  1  got  reckless  too,  nothing  I  did  could 
please  him,  and  after  a  while  I  stopped  trying.  We  led  a  regu- 
lar cat-anil -dog  life  of  it ;  but  all  the  while,  mind  you,  there 
was  this  difference — I  was  as  fond  of  him  as  ever,  while  he  got 
fairly  to  hate  me.  He  took  to  drink  and  to  gamble  ;  things 
went  on  from  worse  to  worse,  until  at  last  jealousy  was  added, 
and  then  all  was  over  between  us. 

"  We  were  playing  that  third  year  in  Northern  Indiana,  and  it 
was  there  he  fell  in  with  a  Mrs.  Morgan,  a  widow,  who  had  had 
two  husbands,  and  buried  'em,  and  was  ready  for  a  third.  She 
was  very  rich — -Morgan  had  been  an  army  contractor — she  was 
fifteen  years  older  than  Bertie,  she  was  fat  and  ugly,  and  coarse 
and  common  ;  she  was  called  a  Tartar  by  every  one  who  knew 
her  ;  she  had  jawed  the  army  contractor  to  death,  but  she  fell 
in  love  with  my  husband.  She  saw  him  on  the  stage — he  went 
on  in  minor  parts — and  that  he  had  a  wife  already  made  no  dif- 
ference to  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Morgan,  nor  a  State  like  Indiana. 
She  let  him  know  it  too,  and  he  began  to  go  to  her  house,  and 
escort  her  to  places  just  as  if  he  was  a  single  man.  You  may 
guess  the  sort  of  row  I  raised  when  I  first  found  it  out,  but  he 
only  laughed  in  my  face;  and  all  at  once,  before  I  knew  it,  he 
had  instituted  a  suit  for  divorce,  and  she  gave  him  the  money 
to  carry  it  on.  Incompatibility  of  temper — 'the  deVil  couldn't 
live  with  me  ' — was  what  he  told  them,  and  he  got  his  divorce, 


43*  "HE    WHO  ENDURES   CONQUERS" 

for  he  had  no  trouble  in  proving  the  sort  of  life  we  led.  Before 
the  decree  was  granted  they  had  left  the  place  ;  and  two  weeks 
after,  their  marriage  was  in  the  papers.  He  had  taken  back  his 
own  name,  and  there  it  was  'Albert  Vaughan,  Esq.,  and  Caro- 
line, relict  of  the  late  Peter  Morgan  of  this  city.' 

"  After  that,  I  don't  care  to  tell  or  think  how  I  felt  or  how  I 
went  on.  1  was  reckless  and  mad.  and  didn't  care  for  anything. 
But  I  kept  decent  looks,  and  decent  clothes,  and  by  a  fluke  of 
fortune  got  an  engagement  in  the  theatre  where  I  saw  you  and 
your  wife.  It  was  only  temporarily  to  fill  the  place  of  an 
actress  who  had  suddenly  been  taken  ill.  I  think  the  devil  got 
into  me  at  the  sight.  The  world  prospered  with  everybody  but 
me.  Bertie  Vaughan  was  rolling  in  riches — so  were  you.  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  shoot  him  if  I  ever  met  him,  and 
that  night  I  made  up  mind  to  do  you  all  the  mischief  I  could. 
I  was  struck  of  a  heap  to  see  you  had  married  Miss  Sydney 
Owenson  of  all  women,  and  I  felt  sure  she  couldn't  know  what 
you  had  done  to  Bertie.  I  had  found  out  that  he  was  in  Cali- 
fornia— I  wanted  money  to  come  after  and  hunt  him  down  ; 
you  would  give  me  that  money  to  keep  your  secret,  I  was  sure. 
So  I  went  to  your  house  to  see  you,  and  saw  her  instead.  You 
know  what  I  told  her — a  little  truth  and  a  little  lie.  Between 
both  the  work  was  done,  and  you  and  she  parted.  I  heard  you 
went  to  the  war,  and  guessed  the  reason.  But  I  never  went 
back.  There  was  something  in  your  wife's  look  that,  bad 
as  I  was,  I  couldn't  face  again.  I  stayed  away,  and  let  her 
all  alone. 

"  All  this  time  I  had  kept  track  of  Bertie  Vaughan.  He  and 
the  Morgan  woman  went  to  Europe;  tremendous  swells,  both  of 
them  ;  and  he  was  proud  of  her  money,  if  he  was  ashamed  of 
her.  When  they  came  back — and  with  a  French  nurse  and  a 
baby,  if  you  please  ! — they  went  off  to  California  before  I  could 
set  eyes  on  them.  If  I  had,  the  Morgan  woman  would  have 
been  looking  out  for  number  four  by  this  time.  I  followed 
them  here  as  soon  as  I  could,  and  I  was  only  here  two  days 
when  the  house  I  boarded  in  took  fire,  and  I  jumped  from  the 
window,  and  smashed  myself.  You've  been  good  to  me,  and 
I've  told  you  this  story  to  pay  you  back.  Bertie  Vaughan' s  alive 
and  well,  and  in  this  city,  if  he  hasn't  left  it  since  I  came  here." 

She  stops,  still  clasping  closely  the  hand  that  has  grown  cold 
in  hers.  He  has  not  spoken  a  word  ;  he  has  sat  and  listened 
to  all,  hh  face  rigid  with  surprise,  and  perfectly  colorless. 

"You  ain't  angry,  Lewis?"  she  asks,  wistfully.     "  I  know  it 


"HE   WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERS."  433 

was  horrid  mean  of  me,  but  I'm  awful  sorry  now.     I  can't  say 
any  more  than  that." 

"Angry,  Dolly?  No.  You  have  done  me  the  greatest 
service  to-day  any  human  being  could  do.  I  never  was  a 
murderer  in  intention ;  I  find  I  am  not  one  in  fact  No  words 
of  mine  can  tell  how  grateful,  how  thankful  I  am." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad,"  says  Dolly.  "  I've  done  mischief  enough  ; 
it  is  pleasant  to  help  make  somebody  happy.  I  had  just  got 
Bertie's  address  that  very  afternoon.  He  and  the  Morgan 
woman  were  stopping  at  the House." 

"  At  the House  ! "  exclaims  Nolan,  in  amaze.    "That 

is  my  hotel  for  the  past  six  months." 

"  It  is  odd,  then,  you  never  saw  him  ;  for  that's  where  he  was 
with  the  rest  of  his  caravan,  three  weeks  ago." 

"  No,  not  so  odd  either  ;  I  always  leave  early  in  the  morn, 
ing,  before  most  people  are  up,  and  do  not  return,  as  a  rule, 
until  late.  But  I  shall  ascertain  at  once.  Let  me  thank  you 
once  more,  Dolly  ;  and  believe  me,  I  will  remember  you  with 
j;ratitude  and  affection  forever." 

So  he  goes,  and  Dolly's  heathen  heart  is  full  of  the  after-glow 
that  comes  from  a  good  deed  done.  And  Lewis  Nolan,  like  a 
man  who  walks  in  a  dream,  as  Atlas,  with  the  load  of  a  world 
lifted  off  his  shoulders,  with  a  soul  full  of  silent  thanksgiving 
ind  great  joy,  walks  back  to  his  hotel. 

Excepting  Sundays,  he  has  hardly  ever  been  in  it,  during  his 
sojourn,  at  this  time  of  day.  Half  the  States  might  come  and 
go,  and  he  be  none  the  wiser.  Bertie  Vaughan  might  be  his 
next  door  neighbor  for  all  he  knew.  Alive !  thank  Heaven  1 
thank  Heaven  for  that !  His  first  act  is  to  examine  the  hotel 
register.  Yes,  it  is  there. 

<;  Albert  Vaughan,  Esquire,  lady,  nurse,  and  child." 

His  heart  gives  a  great  leap  at  the  confirmation  ;  but  his  quiet 
face,  except  that  it  flushes  slightly  under  his  dark  skin,  tells 
nothing. 

"  How  long  have  this  family  been  here  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Well,  off  and  on,  nine  months  or  more.  They  travel  about, 
and  make  this  their  headquarters  in  San  Francisco.  Know 
Mr.  Vaughan,  sir?" 

"  I  think  I  have  met  him.  A  very  blonde,  British-looking 
young  fellow  ?  " 

"  With  a  drawl !  and  an  eye-gloss,  a  half  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
of  brain,"  says  the  smart  clerk,  throwing  himself  into  an  atti. 
tude  and  mimicking  Mr.  Vaughan  : 
19 


*34  "HE   WHO  ENDURES  CONQUERS."" 

"  '  Aw,  I  say,  my  good  fellah,  just  mix  me  a  sherry  cobbler, 
will  you — it's  so  blawsted  'ot  to-day!'  Uncommon  fond  of 
crooking  his  elbow,  is  Mr.  Vaughan.  And  he  ain't  hen-pecked 
neither.  Oh,  no,  not  at  all." 

Mr.  Nolan  does  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  these  sarcastic 
remarks,  but  springs  with  elastic  lightness  up  the  stairs  to  hi» 
own  room  on  the  third  floor.  He  will  write  to  his  wife  and  tell 
her  all.  No,  he  will  send  her  a  telegram  ;  he  cannot  wait.  A 
telegram  just  to  apprise  her  that  Bertie  Vaughan  is  alive,  and  a 
letter  afterward  to  explain  how  he  comes-  to  know.  Nothing 
need  stand  between  them  now.  Such  a  rush  of  hope  and  ioy 
comes  over  him  as  he  realizes  it  that  he  can  do  nothing  but  jUt, 
the  pen  idle  in  his  hand,  in  a  happy  dream. 

He  begins  his  letter  at  last : 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  August  28th. 

"Mv  DEAR  WIFE." 

Again  he  pauses,  the  words  he  has  written  seem  to  hold  hi* 
hand  by  some  charmed  spell,  and  he  can  get  no  further.  "  My 
dear  wife."  With  what  different  feelings  he  wrote  these  very 
words  last,  sitting  in  his  mother's  cottage,  while  the  dull  dawn 
broke,  beginning  that  letter  of  saddest  farewell.  He  has  never 
written  them  -since,  never  sent  her  word,  or  note,  or  line.  Be- 
tween them  stood  the  red  shadow  of  murder,  the  dead,  menacing 
face  of  Bertie  Vaughan.  But  Bertie  Vaughan  is  alive  and  well, 
and  beneath  this  v  ^ry  roof — how  strange,  how  strange — once 
more  the  sweet  familiar  address,  so  long  unwritten,  looks  up  at 
him  from  the  paper.  He  could  see  her  as  she  received  this 
letter,  the  tears,  the  joy,  the  prayer  of  almost  speechless 
gratitude,  the  loving,  eager  reply. 

"  My  dear  wife  !  " — what  shall  he  say — how  begin  ?  He  is 
not  usually  at  a  loss  for  words,  either  in  writing  or  speaking ; 
but  this  is  the  supreme  moment  of  a  life,  and  it  is  not  so  easy 
either  to  break  the  news  of  great  sorrow  or  joy.  He  sits  so 
absorbed  that  a  faint  tap  at  the  door  fails  to  reach  him.  He 
neither  hears  nor  knows,  when  the  handle  is  gently  turned  and 
some  one  comes  in. 

Five  minutes  previously,  there  had  been  an  arrival.  A  lady, 
youthful  and  elegant,  though  slightly  travel-worn,  has  driven  up 
to  the  hotel  and  inquired  for  Mr.  Nolan.  Yes,  Mr.  Nolan  is 
there,  and  up  in  his  room,  says  the  smart  clerk,  with  a  look  of 
mingled  surprise,  curiosity,  and  admiration.  In  the  six  months 
of  his  stay,  Mr.  Nolan  has  had  no  ladies  to  ask  after  him  before. 


"HE    WHO   EN 'DUKES  CONQUERS."  43$ 

This  young  lady,  despite  her  gray  veil,  the  clerk  can  see,  is  ex- 
ceptionally handsome  and  "  high-toned."  "  The  sort  of  missis 
/should  like  to  s\vell  down  Montgomery  street  any  day  in  the 
week  with,  and  I  ain't  easy  to  please  neither,  I  ain't,"  is  what 
the  clerk  says  afterward,  relating  the  occurrence. 

"  Shall  I  send  for  Mr.  Nolan,  madame  ?  "  in  his  most  suave 
manner,  says  the  smart  clerk. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Nolan,"  the  young  lady  answers,  with  quiet  dig- 
nity and  a  vivid  blush.  "  if  you  will  show  me  to  his  room  I 
will  not  trouble  you." 

"  You  Pete,"  calls  the  clerk,  and  "You  Pete,"  a  colored  boy, 
bounces  forward.  "  Show  this  lady  to  seventy-three,  and  look 
sharp." 

The  lady  follows  "  You  Pete,"  and  the  sprightly  clerk  blows 
after  her  an  enthusiastic  kiss. 

"Beauteous  creature!  'She's  all  my  fancy  painted  her, 
she's  lovely,  she's  divine  ;  but  her  heart  it  is  another's,  and  it 
never  can  be  mine.'  Didn't  know  Nolan  had  a  wife.  Close 
mouthed  fellow,  Nolan.  Such  a  stunner,  too.  Just  from  the 
States.  Steamer  in  an  hour  ago.  Wonder  if  he  expects  her  ? 
Never  went  to  the  pier.  But  then  she's  his  own  wife.  If  she 
was  any  other  fellow's " 

Pete  escorts  her  to  No.  73 — points  it  out  with  a  grin,  ducks 
his  woolly  head,  and  disappears.  She  taps  lightly,  her  heart 
beating  so  fast  that  she  grows  faint.  There  is  no  response  ; 
she  opens  and  goes  in.  He  is  seated,  his  back  to  her,  writing. 
She  throws  off  her  veil,  clasps  her  hands,  and  looks  at  him  for 
a  moment — the  husband  unseen  so  long.  Then  there  is  a  waft 
of  perfume,  the  flutter  of  a  woman's  dress,  and  she  is  kneeling 
before  him,  her  face  bowed  on  his  knee. 

"  Lewis  !  "          • 

He  starts  with  a  violent  recoil,  and  looks  at  her.  She  has 
been  so  vividly  before  him,  that  for  a  moment  he  thinks  it  is  a 
hallucination,  conjured  up  by  his  own  intense  longing.  But 
she  speaks  again  brokenly,  in  Sydney's  own  soft  voice  : 

"  Lewis — husband — I  have  come  to  you  !  I  could  not  stay 
away  longer.  Oh  !  Lewis,  say  you  are  glad  I  am  here." 

"  Sydney ! "  he  says  in  a  dazed  voice,  and  sits  and  looks  at 
her,  almost  afraid  to  touch  this  kneeling  figure,  lest  it  should 
vanish,  "  is  it  Sydney,  or  am  I  dreaming  ?  " 

She  lifts  her  face,  all  pale  and  wet  with  passionate  tears,  and 
throws  her  arms  about  him. 

"Lewis!  Lewis!  Lewis  1" 


43<5  "INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT" 

"  It  is  real  then  ;  it  is  Sydney  ! " 

While  he  sat  here  trying  to  get  beyond  the  words  that 
charmed  him,  she  was  on  her  way  to  him.  Once  more  he 
looks  on  Sydney's  fair,  sweet  face ;  once  more  Sydney's  tender 
arms  clasp  him. 

"  My  wife  !  my  wife  !  " 

He  holds  her  for  a  little,  and  no  words  are  spoken.  She 
still  kneels,  and  he  makes  no  attempt  to  raise  her.  So  intense 
is  the  surprise  that  he  is  almost  stunned.  Then  a  sudden 
startling  thought  strikes  him — why  has  she  come  !  Does  she 
know  ?  He  draws  back  and  looks  down  into  the  face  that  is 
dearer  to  him  than  all  earth  beside — that  he  has  seen  only  in 
dreams  for  two  long  years. 

"Sydney,"  he  asks,  "why  have  you  come  ?  How  is  it  that 
what  parted  us  once  does  not  part  us  still  ?  " 

"  Because  it  should  never  have  parted  us,"  she  says  with  a 
great  sob  ;  "  because  my  life  away  from  you  was  one  long 
death.  I  could  not  stay.  Whether  you  want  me  or  not, 
Lewis,  I  had  to  corne.  Do  what  you  may,  I  can  never  have 
any  life  apart  from  you  more." 

She  knows  nothing.  She  has  come  to  him  because  she  loves 
him  too  well  to  let  even  guilt  stand  between  them.  And  he 
bows  his  head,  and  from  his  full  heart  come  the  words,  sublime 
beyond  all  others  to  speak  the  utter  joy  of  human  souls  : 

"  Thank  God  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  INTO    MARVELLOUS    LIGHT." 

]HE  first  shock  of  glad  meeting,  of  joyful  surprise  is 
past,  and  they  sit  side  by  side,  and  it  is  Sydney  who 
talks.  She  has  much  to  tell.  First  and  chief  is 
Lucy's  death,  of  which  as  yet  he  has  not  heard,  and 
he  covers  his  eyes  for  a  moment  as  he  hears  it.  It  is  well  per- 
haps that  some  dimness  should  shadow  the  radiance  of  too 
much  light — this  is  the  dark  spot  in  his  picture.  He  has 
long  known  she  must  die  ;  but  let  death  be  ever  so  long  ex- 
pected, it  is  none  the  less  a  shock  when  it  comes.  He  has 
loved  and  venerated  that  tender,  patient  sister,  even  in  the 


"INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT."  437 

nr.ost  thoughtless  days  of  his  youth  ;  but  it  seems  to  him  he  has 
never  known  how  lear  she  was  to  him  before.  Looking  up  in 
his  face,  his  hands  clasped  in  hers,  Sydney  tells  him  all.  How 
Sister  Monica  and  Lucy  pointed  out  the  path  of  duty,  that  has 
led  her  here.  She  tells  him,  too,  the  story  of  Teddy's  loss,  and 
the  happy  reunion,  after  long  parting  and  pain,  of  Teddy's 
father  and  mother. 

"  So  yon  lost  all,"  he  says  to  her.  looking  down  into  the  fair 
earnest  face  with  a  tender  smile,  "your  friend  and  your  boy. 
It  must  have  been  very  lonely  for  you,  my  princess." 

"  Lonely  !  "  She  makes  a  little  passionate  gtsture  ;  "  I  had 
lost  j'0#,  Lewis — it  could  not  matter  who  came  or  went  after 
that." 

"  Still  you  would  never  have  come  to  me  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Sister  Monica  ; "  he  answers.  "  By-the-by,  if  ever  I  meet 
that  best  of  little  sisters,  I  must  thank  her  for  sending  me  my 
wife.  You  never  would  have  come  of  yourself,  would  you,  Syd- 
ney?" 

"  Ah  !  I  don't  know,"  Sydney  says  sorrowfully  ;  "  it  was  such 
a  miserable,  miserable  time,  Lewis.  It  gives  me  the  heartache 
even  now  that  I  sit  beside  you  and  look  back  upon  it — the  long 
desolate  months  of  waiting,  and  hoping,  and  fearing,  and  long- 
ing. Lewis,  I  thought  you  would  have  returned  when  the  war 
ended.  I  so  hoped  you  would  have  come  ;  1  would  never  have 
let  you  go  again,  if  you  had.  Duty — as  I  thought  it  then — my 
promise  to  the  dead — all  would  have  been  flung  to  the  winds 
at  the  sight  of  your  face.  Hut  you  did  not  corne,  you  did  not 
seem  to  care  to  come.  You  had  your  work  and  your  ambition. 
Men  do  not  feel  these  things  as  women  do.  My  life  has  been 
one  long  wretchedness  ;  and  yours — has  your  profession  kept 
sorrow  and  loneliness  altogether  at  bay  ?  Has  your  life  not  been 
so  full  and  so  busy  that  you  have  had  little  time  to  grieve  for 
your  wife  ?  " 

There  is  a  smile  on  his  face  as  he  listens  to  the  impassioned 
xeproach,  but  his  eyes  are  tender  and  grave. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  ?  "  he  asfcs. 

"  Your  work  has  not  filled  your  life  ;  "  she  answers,  "  Look 
here,  Lewis,"  she  lifts  his  dark  hair,  and  with  a  touch  that  is  a 
caress,  "  there  are  gray  hairs  here,  my  dearest,  and  when  I  saw 
you  last  it  was  all  raven  dark.  You  have  not  changed  much, 
but  I  can  see  that  you  have  suffered.  My  husband,  I  should 
never  have  let  you  go." 

She  lays  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  there  is  silence  for  a 


438  "INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT." 

little  ;  her  heart  full  of  the  loneliness  and  loss  of  these  two  past 
years. 

"  It  was  such  a  hard  conflict  between  duty  and  love,"  she 
goes  on,  "  my  duty,  it  seemed  to  me,  forbade  my  ever  seeing 
again  the  man  who  had  caused  Bertie  Vaughan's  death — forgive 
me  that  I  speak  of  it,  Lewis,  I  never  will  again — and  my  love 
called  always  for  my  husband's  return.  Many,  many  times, 
when  half  wild  with  thinking  of  you,  alone  and  wretched  as  I 
was,  have  I  begun  letters  imploring  your  return,  telling  you  the 
past  was  forgiven  and  forgotten  ;  but  when  they  were  finished 
and  the  impulse  was  past,  I  could  not  send  them.  My  promise 
to  my  father  seemed  to  rise  before  me  and  appal  me.  To  ask 
you  to  return  seemed  to  me  like  a  crime,  and  these  letters  went 
into  the  fire,  one  and  all." 

"  And  yet,  my  wife,  you  are  here." 

"  Yes,  Lewis,  it  all  seemed  so  clear  that  night.  Sister  Monica 
and  Lucy  were  nearer  heaven  than  I ;  they  knew  best.  All 
was  dark  with  me  ;  I  could  not  decide  what  was  right  or  whal 
was  wrong.  I  was  like  one  shipwrecked,  tossing  about  on  a 
troubled  sea  without  rudder  or  compass  or  pilot  to  guide.  But 
they  knew,  and  my  heart,  hungry  for  the  sight  of  you,  echoed 
every  word  they  said.  And  so  I  am  here,  and  I  know  at  last 
my  first  earthly  duty  is  to  the  husband  I  love  and  venerate 
above  all  men,  and  to  whom  I  have  pledged  to  cleave  until 
death.  And  never — no  never,  Lewis,  shall  the  shadow  of  the 
past  come  to  darken  my  life.  I  want  you  to  know  and  feel 
that,  to  believe  that  I  love  and  honor  you  as  greatly  as  though 
the  past  had  never  been." 

She  flings  her  arms  about  him  with  a  great  sob  as  she  ceases, 
and  they  sit  in  silence.  Presently  he  reaches  over  and  takes 
up  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  he  has  been  writing. 

"  Look  here,  Sydney." 

She  looks  and  reads,  "  My  Dear  Wife,"  and  lifts  her  surprised 
eyes  to  his  face. 

"  Were  you  writing  to  me,  Lewis  ?  " 

"  I  was  writing  to  you.  Does  it  not  strike  you  as  strange 
that  after  a  silence  of  two  years  I  should  to-day  begin  a  letter 
to  you  ?  I  could  get  no  further  than  these  three  words  ;  they 
hold  a  charm  for  me.  I  thought  I  had  written  them  for  the 
last  time  that  morning  in  my  mother's  house.  Do  you  not 
wonder  what  I  was  going  to  say  ?  " 

She  laughs  and  blushes  in  the  old  charming  way  that  Sydney 
Owenson  was  wont  to  do,  under  Lewis  Nolan's  eyes. 


"INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT."  439 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  what  I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  New  York  to  San  Francisco  to  tell  you — that  afe  apart  was 
impossible  any  longer." 

"  Well,  not  exactly,  although  I  think  it  is  highly  probable  I 
might  have  said  that  too.  But  I  had  something  to  tell  you.  Do 
you  recall  the  message  Dolly  De  Courcy  gave  you  for  me,  the 
afternoon  she  came  to  you  ?  Do  you  remember  the  words  ? 
You  look  puzzled  :  let  me  help  you.  She  said,  '  Ask  youi 
husband  how  he  last  parted  with  Bertie  Vaughan  ? '  Was  that 
not  it  ?  '  " 

"  Y-e-s  ;  I  think  so.  " 

"  Recall  the  story  I  told  you.  You  may  recollect  I  said  thai 
after  flinging  Vaughan  from  me,  and  seeing  him  fall  over,  I  took 
it  for  granted  he  was  smashed  to  atoms,  and  never  looked  to 
confirm  the  supposition.  Now  does  it  not  strike  you  that 
there  may  have  been  a  mistake  ?  That  he  may  not  have  been 
killed  after  all  ?  " 

"  Lewis,  what  is  this  ?  I — I  do  not  understand  you !  " 

She  lifts  a  white  startled  face,  and  he  smiles  down  upon  her 
a  smile  she  does  not  understand. 

"  I  do  not  believe  Bertie  Vaughan  was  killed.  Indeed  I  have 
excellent  reason  for  believing  he  is  very  much  alive  at  this 
moment.  1  believe  that  he  is  in  California  ;  more,  that  he  is 
in  San  Francisco  ;  still  more,  that  he  is  in  this  very  hotel  at 
this  very  hour  !  Beneath  the  same  roof  with  you,  Sydney — think 
of  it — Bertie  Vaughan  !" 

She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot ;  she  is  clinging  to  him 
with  a  terrified  face. 

"  Lewis,  what  are  you  saying  !  Oh  !  you  would  not  jest 
about  this.  If  you  have  any  pity,  speak  out — what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  My  dear  little  wife,  what  I  say.  All  my  remorse,  all  our 
suffering,  all  our  parting  have  been  for  nothing.  On  that  long- 
gone  wedding  day  of  yours,  when  the  bridegroom  did  not  come 
and  you  mourned  for  him  as  dead,  he  was  the  bridegroom  of 
another  bride.  On  the  day  he  was  to  have  married  you,  my 
Sydney,  he  married  Dolly  De  Courcy,  " 

She  utters  a  gasping  cry,  clasps  both  hands  together,  and 
sits  breathlessly  waiting. 

"  Oh  !•' she  cries  out,  "he  was  not  killed  after  all  !  Thank 
Heaven,  thank  Heaven  ! " 

"  Amen.  No,  he  was  not  kil'ed.  He  was  but  a  poor  crea- 
ture to  Buffer  for  at  the  Lest,  but  your  suffering  was  in  vain. 


440  "INTO  MARl'ELLOUS  LIGHT." 

Had  your  father  known  the  truth,  proud,  high  spirited,  as  you 
told  me  he  was,  the  shock  of  the  reality  would  have  been 
worse  to  him  than  the  shock  of  the  delusion.  Dolly  De  Courcy 
saved  his  life  that  night,  and  he  married  her  next  day.  Married 
her  and  deserted  her,  and  is  now  under  this  roof  the  husband 
of  another  woman.  Don't  tremble  so,  Sydney  ;  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  story  ? 

He  tells  it;  the  story  of  that  sultry  night,  of  Dolly,  of  the  ser- 
vices he  was  able  to  render,  and  of  her  return.  And  Sydney 
listens,  dazed,  in  a  dream.  Bertie  Vaughan  alive  and  here  ! 
She  has  thought  him  dead  so  long  that  it  is  impossible  to  real- 
ize it.  And  Lewis's  hand  is  unstained  by  blood,  not  the  shadow 
of  a  shadow  need  stand  between  them.  She  turns  so  white,  so 
deathly  faint  and  sick,  that  he  thinks  she  is  going  to  swoon,  and 
springs  to  his  feet  in  consternation. 

"  Good  Heaven !  Sydney,  the  shock  has  been  too  much  for 
you.  Don't  faint,  I  beg!"  cries  Lewis  with  a  man's  comical 
horror,  "  wait  !  I'll  get  a  glass  of  wine — of  water." 

He  rushes  off,  despite  Sydney's  gasping  protest.  Under  the 
open  window  there  is  a  marble  stand  and  a  crystal  jug  of  ice- 
water.  He  is  hastily  filling  a  goblet,  when  the  stentor  tones  of 
"  You  Pete,"  on  the  sidewalk  below  arrest  his  hand. 

"  Look-a-heah  !  you  darn  black  nigger  !  "  is  what  "You  Pete" 
is  vociferating  ;  "  does  you  mean  to  loaf  up  dar  all  day  ?  Jest 
fetch  along  Missy  Vaughan' s  tother  Sairytogy,  and  look  alive 
'bout  it,  will  yer  !  " 

It  is  the  name  that  arrests  his  attention.  At  the  curbstone 
stands  a  hack,  the  driver  busily  strapping  on  trunks.  Within, 
upon  the  front  seat  sits  a  nurse  and  a  baby ;  upon  the  back,  a 
lady,  her  head  thrust  out  of  the  doorway  giving  directions.  She 
is  a  woman  of  forty  or  more,  fat  and  yellow,  with  an  unpleas- 
antly bilious  look,  a  wide  thin  mouth,  a  sharply  pointed  nose, 
small  fierce  black  eyes,  and  shrew  and  vixen  in  every  acrid  tone 
of  her  piercing  voice. 

"  Say,  you  darkey  ! "  she  shrieks  to  "  You  Pete,"  "  just  go  and 
see  what  Mr.  Vaughan' s  about,  will  you.  I  can't  wait  here  for 
him  all  day." 

"All  right,  missis,  he  ain't  doin'  nufnn,  missis,"  briskly  re- 
sponds Pete  ;  "jest  a  wettin'  his  whistle  in  de  bar.  Now  den, 
old  whip,  here's  dat.ar  Sairytogy  at  last." 

"  Wetting  his  whistle  !  "  repeats  the  lady  vindictively.  "  Will 
you  go,  you  black  boy,  and  tell  him  to  come  here  this  very  min- 
ute. I  shall  drive  on  if  he  isn't  here  when  that  trunk  is  strapped." 


"INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT."  441 

"  All  right  'm,"  says  Pete  with  a  grin,  and  an  intense  appre- 
ciation of  the  situation,  and  di'res  into  the  hotel. 

"  Sydney,"  says  Mr.  Nolan,  with  what  can  be  called  nothing 
less  than  diabolical  malice,  "  come  here.  The  air  will  do  you 
good." 

There  is  a  wicked  laugh  in  his  eyes  as  he  draws  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  His  windows  "  give "  on  the  piazza,  lika 
doors,  and  he  throws  this  wide,  and  leads  her  out. 

"  I  am  better,  Lewis,"  she  says,  "  it  was  nothing.  It  was 
only " 

She  suddenly  stops.  In  flaring  painted  capitals,  on  the  can- 
vas cover  of  the  "  Sairytogys  "  there  is  the  name  VAUGHAN. 

"  Well,"  cries  the  owner  of  the  vinegar  face,  in  a  most  vine- 
gary voice,  to  "  You  Pete,"  who  reappears  :  "  is  Mr.  Vaughan 
coming  or  is  he  not  ?  Does  he  mean  to  keep  me  here  all  day, 

or Oh  !  really,  Mr.  Vaughan,  here  you  are  at  last !  "  (this 

in  accents  of  scathing  politeness.)     "  How  very  good  of  you  to 
condescend  to  come  at  all !  " 

"  What  a  devil  of  a  hurry  you're  in,  Caroline,"  says  a  sulky, 
masculine  voice ;  "  it  wants  twenty  minutes  of  train-time  yet, 
and  it  isn't  a  ten-minute  drive.  Can't  you  let  a  man " 

He  pauses  and  looks  up.  For  from  the  piazza  there  comes 
a  low,  irrepressible  cry  of  "  Bertie  I "  And  the  words  die  on 
his  lips,  and  the  deep,  permanent  flush  fades  into  sickly  pallor 
on  his  face,  and  he  stands  like  a  man  whom  every  power  is  leav- 
ing but  the  one  power  of  sight.  And  Bertie  Vaughan  and  Syd- 
ney are  face  to  face. 

He  recognizes  her  instantly  and  she  him.  She  has  changed 
but  little,  and  that  little  for  the  better ;  he  has  changed  much, 
and  that  much  for  the  worse  ;  but  they  know  each  other  instan- 
taneously. Grown  stout  and  somewhat  bloated,  indeed,  all  that 
delicacy  of  figure  and  complexion  that  once  made  Bertie 
Vaughan  beautiful,  with  a  woman's  beauty,  forever  lost,  it  is  yet 
Bertie  Vaughan  who  stands  there  and  looks  at  Captain  Owen- 
son's  daughter. 

He  has  turned  dead  white  to  the  very  lips  ;  he  stands  para- 
lyzed, and  for  ten  seconds  they  look  straight  into  each  other*i 
eyes. 

Then  Mrs.  Vaughan  conies  to  the  rescue  in  tones  of  smoth- 
ered fury. 

"  Mr.  Vaughan,  for  the  last  time,  will  you  or  will  you  not  gel 
into  this  carriage  ?     What  are  you  standing  there  gaping  like  a 
fool  lor  ?     Driver,  don't  wait  another  minute  ;  drive  on." 
19* 


442  "INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT." 

It  arouses  him  from  his  trance.  Alas  !  those  tones  cf  ver- 
juice arouse  him  often.  He  turns  and  leaps  in. 

u  Drive  and  be ! "  is  the  awful  expression  he  makes  use 

of,  in  his  recklessness,  to  his  wealthy  wife. 

He  pulls  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  shuts  his  lips,  folds  his  arms, 
and  is  driven  to  the  station.  But  all  the  while  the  ruddy  color 
does  not  return,  all  the  while  the  ceaseless  nag,  nag,  of  a  nag- 
ging woman  falls  like  the  harmless  buzzing  of  a  summer  fly. 
Whatever  this  woman  whom  he  has  married  may  know  of  his 
career,  there  is  one  episode  she  does  not  know,  never  will  know  ; 
one  name  she  will  never  hear,  and  that  Sydney  Owenson. 

The  husband  and  wife  on  the  piazza  stand  and  watch  the  car- 
nage that  bears  the  other  husband  and  wife  out  of  sight.  Then 
she  turns  to  him  with  a  sort  of  sobbing  cry 

"  Oh,  Lewis,  take  me  in.1' 

He  obeys,  almost  sorry  for  what  he  has  done,  and  she  leans 
her  face  against  him,  and  he  knows  that  she  is  crying.  Not  for 
the  man  she  has  just  seen,  may  never  see  again,  and  has  so  long 
mourned  as  dead,  but  for  the  memory  of  that  other  Bertie 
Vaughan,  the  brother  of  her  youth,  the  pet  of  her  father  and 
mother — a  memory  that  is  dead  and  buried  forever. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  princess,"  her  husband  says,  smiling,  yet 
looking  sympathetic,  too;  "he  never  was  worth  one  of  those 
tears  ;  and,  poor  fellow,  my  deepest  sympathies  go  with  him." 

"  That  wife  !  "  Lewis  Nolan  laughs,  in  spite  of  his  concern 
at  these  falling  tears.  "  1  knew  you  could  never  realize  the 
fact  of  his  being  alive  so  vividly  as  if  you  saw  him  face  to  face. 
Mrs.  Nolan,  cease  immediately  !  I  object  to  your  crying  for 
another  man." 

It  is  the  briefest  of  summer  showers.  She  lifts  her  face  and 
dashes  away  the  lingering  tear-drops,  indignant  at  herself. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  says,  with  a  great  gasp,  and  clasping  both  hands 
tightly  around  Mr.  Nolan's  gray  coat-sleeve,  "to  think  I  might 
have  been  his  wife  to-day  if  you  had  not  thrown  him  over  the 
cliff.  I  never  want  to  think  of  Bertie  Vaughan  again." 

"  Then  my  rising  jealousy  is  allayed.  Blame  him  not.  my 
princess — awful  retribution  has  befallen  him — an  avenging  Nem- 
esis has  overtaken  him  in  the  person  of  that  appalling  Mrs. 
Vaughan.  Even  Dolly  De  Courcy  is  avenged." 

"  Let  us  talk  of  something  else,"  says  Mrs.  Nolan,  with  a  lit- 
tle distasteful  look,  as  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  left  a  bad  taste 
in  her  mouth — "  yonder  sunset,  for  instance.  I  did  not  think 


"INTO  MARVELLOUS  LIGHT"  441 

you  got  up  such  gorgeous  coloring  in  the  land  of  gold.  It 
equals  Venice." 

For  the  sun  is  going  down  behind  the  myriad  city  roofs  and 
steeples,  in  a  glory  of  color  we  call  golden  and  crimson,  but 
which  no  hue  of  earth  ever  approaches.  Fleecy  clouds  all  pal- 
est rose  or  vividest  red,  faintest  amber  and  deepest  orange,  go 
before  like  heralds,  and  in  his  royal  purples,  like  any  other  mon- 
arch, the  king  of  day  is  sinking  from  sight. 

"How  lovely!  how  lovely!"  Sydney  murmurs.  "What  a 
glorious  sky ! " 

•'  Ye-e-s,"  Mr.  Nolan  says,  in  the  critical  tone  of  a  connois- 
seur in  sunsets.  "  When  we  do  this  sort  of  thing  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, we  do  do  it  A  very  fine  celestial  illumination,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Nolan,  got  up  for  your  special  delectation,  no  doubt,  to 
convince  you  that  painted  skies  are  home  as  well  as  foreign  pro- 
ducts. It  is  beautiful." 

She  smiles,  but  says  nothing — her  swelling  heart  too  full  for 
words.  It  seems  to  her  as  if  the  great  new  happiness  that  has 
come  to  her  were  but  reflected  in  that  lovely  western  radiance. 
She  still  clasps  his  arm,  and  so,  side  by  side,  to  part  no  more, 
they  stand  together,  the  rose  light  on  their  faces,  the  "  light 
that  never  shone  on  sea  or  land,"  in  their  hearts,  and  watch  the 
sun  go  down. 


THE    IMD. 


